These Crimes of Illusion
by Kira
Summary: Pre Series. Dean finds himself in the clutches of a fae, only to find the aftermath's more difficult that he expected when a price has been put on his head. There's only so much help a father can give... COMPLETE
1. Part 1, Chapter 1

**Title:** These Crimes of Illusion  
**Author: **Kira  
**Rating:** R (for language)  
**Genre:** Pre-Series, Gen

**Summary:** "Out in the real world, he can't see a thing." An encounter with fae leaves its marks on Dean, leading him and his father on a dangerous journey to recover things stolen -- and uncover truths that challenge their perceptions of good and evil.

**Note:** The term fae is used in this story to refer to faeries, or fairies. Not the small ones, but those mentioned in legends and tales from Ireland and Wales. I'd like to thank the following people for their support and hand-holding: Scout27, Gisela, P.L. Wynter, Koyote19, & Ambino1111.

**These Crimes of Illusion**  
_ Chapter 1.1_

_"But maybe it's a false alarm  
And all the answers sound the same  
Just colours bleeding into one  
That doesn't have a name  
Maybe I can't see  
Maybe it's just me..."_

- "False Alarm," KT Tunstall

_It _starts with a bang and ends with a whimper instead of the other way around.

John Winchester recovers from the departure of his younger son in the same way he "recovered" from the death of his wife -- to John and Dean, leaving and death are synonymous when it comes to those they love -- drinks and bars and the thick smell of smoke clinging to his skin. He's not at the top of his game and he knows it, but still decides to get back into it.

The hunt's a welcome distraction for both, even if John wears his emotions on his sleeve and Dean burrows them so deep inside, he's convinced himself Sam was never really there at all, that it's always been him and John -- dad -- and it always will be. They work through the motions like robots. Clean weapons, research, scout, kill.

Each night, they fall into bed and dreamless sleep. Neither move unless the other does; cars pass the hotels and one or the other will jar awake, check it out, and fall back asleep. The world becomes a blur of grey and green and red, jumbled up like the words printed in the newspaper get mixed up when you try to read it before a cup of coffee. It soon loses meaning and Dean attributes that to the loss of Sam, of his other half, and refutes the claim that only twins have that deep connection.

There's less time between hunts; John's become obsessed with some shadow Dean can't see. His father says he casts too bright a light upon the world sometimes, and that's why some shadows remain out of his reach. It was a lethargic night when he said that, and Dean feels odd hearing something so poetic come out of his father's mouth. He doesn't like to think his father's dark and he's light -- Sammy's light, if any of them are, not Dean. Dean's sharp angles and half-shadows, stuck in-between the world.

Dean doesn't meet her in a bar. He's taking a walk after midnight in a small town in Pennsylvania or Kentucky. State lines have become arbitrary to him, just as the line between dedication and obsession has to his father.

He needs a break, needs some fresh air and a bit of _normal_ before things spiral too far out of control. The air here is crisp and cold; he can see his breath as he walks down Main Street, called Peach here, and looks in the windows of all the closed shops. They sleep, but he doesn't.

A few people stumble out of a bar up ahead, and Dean thinks that would be a good place to rest his feet -- just for a few minutes, at least. He'll get a drink, let himself take a rest, and get on with his walk.

He never makes it to the bar. A woman walks out at that moment, her eyes shimmering in the moonlight. There's an odd glow about her, and he finds another image transposed over her that contradicts what his eyes are seeing. Her hair's blond, but the opaque image he sees layered over her has black. Her clothes are tight and sexy, but over her he sees a dark twisted dress.

When she walks past him, he frowns and tries to reconcile the two images, but finds himself unable to. There's a woosh of air, and the second, darker image walks over to him, and then he finds her in front of him without even taking a step.

She's standing there, all smiles and sweet innocence, and that's when he _really_ sees her. Images from textbooks and old volumes his father totes around flash through is mind.

Dean knows what she is, and there has to be something in the way he looks at her that tips her off, because before he knows what's happening, the world swirls out of view into those blues and grays and reds he's been seeing lately, then shades of gray that fall into black, and his eyes are as useless as his mind.

* * *

There are certain sounds humans have grown used to over the last two hundred years or so. In cities, it is the sound of cars, the hum of lights, idle chatter from apartments with paper walls. It's the same outside the cities, in the small and medium towns of the American Midwest, just to a smaller degree. Humans are used to the white noise of their society, and pure silence is something they've never experienced. 

When Dean Winchester hears it, he doesn't know what to think.

His brain just _can't get it_. There's something missing, something _off_, and he notices that before anything else. His mind takes a moment to wrap itself around a complete absence of even ambient sounds, and even though it still tries to reject it, he moves on. Opens his eyes.

What he sees confuses him, because it's like before, with the girl and two images unable to reconcile into one. Maybe he has a concussion, though how he got one is something he can't answer, much like a bruise you find in the morning that wasn't there before.

_Just pick one_, he tells his brain. Pick an image and stick to it. Because this split focus is giving him a pounding headache in the same way he learned he needed glasses in the third grade. Right behind the eyes, the tender spot that makes you think your head's going to explode. Dean pinches the bridge of his nose, closes his eyes, and gathers himself.

He tries again, this time, his brain finally choosing and image and sticking with it. With the assistance of this newfound clarity, Dean can finally scan his surroundings. Dark, sleek walls that match the low ceiling. He half expected to see stalactites of black marble hanging over his head to complete the cavernous aesthetic, but found a chandelier instead.

A _real _chandelier stuck in a world of Glamour.

Because that's what it is, and he knows it, though why he can see right through it to the bare bones is beyond him. He's never encountered Glamour before, no one is his family has. The odds for _that_ are pretty high, and for once, luck was on their side, because Glamour only leads to Fae, and if there has ever existed something outside the realm of human existence one didn't want to go up against, it was them.

So he goes on what he's learned through reading, something that amuses him to no end; for so long he's rebelled against reading and thinking, just to piss his brother off, and now here he is, working through photocopies and yellowed pages, trying to remember what he should expect.

Such as chains, but his arms and legs are free. He's slouched in a chair, no cushions, just hard rock or metal, feet sprawled, arms splayed, a body thrown to storage until it became useful. He tries not to make any sound as he moves, slowly gathers his wayward limbs, wincing as his shoes scrape against something on the floor. Dean pauses, waits, listens, then goes again and makes it to a standing position before there's a rustle of fabric and a pungent breeze.

"Where do you think you're going?" is whispered in his ear, hands coming to rest gently on his hips. They slide around to rest just over his stomach, a woman's weight resting against his back. He's stood like this before, when drunk or lonely, and the chill that emanates from this woman confirms his belief that she's anything _but_.

Dean clears his throat, uncomfortable, but no fool; he's not going to push away, not until he knows _exactly_ what he's up against. "Just lookin' around. Nice place you got here. Very...black."

She tightens her grip, just a bit, but enough to clarify who's in control. "Pish. Most complain the décor's too...feminine. But you, I knew you were _special_."

"Well, my mother _did_ always say I was a special kid," he quips. "She taught me manners, too. You got a name, sweetheart?"

She twists him around so they're facing each other, still locked in a forced embrace. Leaning in, she purrs before saying, "You can call me Estrella."

Her breath is a gust of freezing wind on an icy day. A shiver runs down Dean's spine.

Estrella releases him in a fluid motion, hand slipping down his arm, raising goose bumps across his skin wherever she touches, and grasps his hand in hers. They're spinning and twirling across the open black marble, Estrella alternating between leading and following. From nowhere, music streams over them, wrapping around them, and she pulls Dean into a complicated waltz he only knows half the steps to.

They're moving around in erratic circles, and Dean looks into Estrella's eyes and sees nothing but bleak darkness, twin black holes of nothingness. Her grip around his waist tightens, her lips parting slightly, face coming closer.

There are certain lengths Dean will go to in order to save his own hide, but making out with a demented Unseelie fae isn't one of them, and as she comes in closer, eyes locked with his, he shuts his mouth and pushes her out into a spin. Using her own momentum against her, Dean lets her go, watching as she spirals across the floor and almost hits the wall; he's halfway across the room to the doorway she entered through before her hands grasp his shoulders, fingers squeezing into them.

"You are a wonderful toy," she says. "But a troublesome one. Do you dislike me? Am I not beautiful?"

"Lady," Dean growls, "you practically have horns."

"Oh, you _are_ a feisty one."

Estrella circles around him, finger tracing it's way from shoulder to chest, and over her shoulder, Dean sees other fae enter, some older, some younger, all wearing the same black lace dress, eyes full of bloodlust. This wasn't covered in any of the books he's read, and for a moment, he wishes for the brother he's burned from his memories and his encyclopedic knowledge of the world.

He's a fish out of water, gasping in oxygen when his lungs lust for water. It's a poor analogy, but the only one he can think of with Estrella smiling at him with thin, pale lips and her friends in the background. Her finger's tracing its way up his neck, across his lips, up his cheekbones.

"Ladies," Estrella coos, "have you ever met a human who could see through Glamour?"

A murmur runs through the growing crowd. Surprise. Wonder. _Fear_.

"Who knew?" Estrella continues. "Who knew such a human existed? You know what needs to be done about this."

"Are there more?" one of the fae asks.

"This isn't supposed to happen," another voices. "This is against the Laws."

"And what happens to those who break the Laws?" Estrella asks.

This is the bang with which _it_ starts. From light to dark instead of the other way around, an eclipse of the sun which burns if you look directly into it. Estrella brings her hands up to his forehead as Dean cycles through the ways he could possibly escape, even if he _can_ see Glamour.

_It_ starts with mild discomfort, that pounding headache resting just behind his eyes swelling to twice its size. He reaches up to pinch his nose again, to put a hand on the side of his head, but his arms are locked to his sides and the world is spinning wildly around him. He wishes he would have looked around one last time, would have memorized the location of the door the women, no, _fae_, entered through, but hindsight is 20/20 even if you're only seeing half the picture.

_It_ shoots through him like a supernova; his eyes _burn_ and he resists the urge to rub them. This isn't that mild burning that comes with exhaustion after a hunt, that sandy feeling when you haven't slept in three days and your body craves sleep. This is a deep, intense, _blinding_ burning that brings him to his knees. He can hear Estrella cackling, can hear the others laughing, but they're at the end of a long tunnel.

Her hands are no longer on him. Dean falls to his side, wondering when this will end, even if he feels it _has_ to end in death because there is no way to survive pain this horrible. The cool marble comes to rest against his side, but he doesn't remember falling, doesn't remember curling up on his side, doesn't remember bringing his hands up to clutch his head.

He blinks, blinks, hoping this is all a bad dream, that he'll wake up and his father will be there reading over papers even at two am.

His eyes, oh, _God_, his eyes! He opens them as wide as he can -- mere slits -- and looks up to Estrella and her hoard of evil fucking bitches and finds beautiful women standing in a white room, a white, beautiful, ornate room and _fuck_, what did she do?

"Beautiful ice blue eyes," she says as the world tilts and spins. Bile rises in his throat. The white room's fading to gray, to black, and _God_, he just wanted to take a walk and clear his head...


	2. Part 1, Chapter 2

**These Crimes of Illusion**

_Chapter 1.2_

Things progress downhill from there, like a stone in snow, rolling faster and faster, gathering what it can before thudding to the bottom where it lay, covered and forgotten, blending with the fresh whiteness blanketing the ground.

That's how Dean feels. Estrella leaves him in a bright white room, and even with his eyes closed, light penetrates his eyelids and keeps him from getting any good rest. He tries a few times here and there, but only manages a good hour, waking out of nightmares involving the sun. After what he defines as three days, for he's lost all concept of day and night, his stomach stops growling; fae such as these eat food only for show, and none come to offer him any.

Water drips in the corner, and while he can not see it, the constant plunk of droplets hitting water reverberates between his ears. With Glamour still in place, Dean finds himself searching among lavish armchairs, hands spread in front of him. Will he be able to find what he can't see? Mind over matter works against him in this place, and turning off years of basic instinct is proving difficult.

Groping the air feels ridiculous; he's glad his father can't see him, but wishes he could if that meant being able to leave. Three days, and he knows his father is searching for him, putting off the real hunt to rescue his idiotic, wayward son.

Dean growls and swears, disturbed by how foreign his voice sounds. The drip of the water is louder now, teasing his parched throat. His mouth is full of cotton and he pauses, straining to hear the soft flow of water.

Left. Dean stumbles on the foot of one of the chairs and catches himself on the wall. The white wallpaper is damp under the cracked skin of his fingers; he slides his hand along the wall until the feeling of water cascading over his hand signals his success.

Crouching down, Dean drinks greedily. The liquid is putrid, foul-smelling with the taste of rot, and he winces with every hungry drink. His father's lessons on basic survival echo in his head; _use what you can to stay alive._

He drinks until he can't take the taste any longer, and shifts to lean against the wall. His stomach flips; Dean breathes through his nose in an attempt to calm it, but finds the odor of the flowing water aggravates it more. His body heaves, and he slams a fist against his mouth to keep himself from throwing up the first stuff to touch his stomach in days.

The smell follows him as he pitches forward and stumbles through the armchairs, tipping like a baby on new legs, stumbles, and falls forward, hands extended in front of him. Grace is something associated with girls practicing ballet, moves practiced until presentation was perfect; grown men rarely exhibited anything close to such a level, yet even with his stomach heaving and muscles trembling from malnutrition, Dean Winchester tumbles forward and lands on his feet.

And comes face to face with his captor for the first time in two days.

--

Memory is a funny, fickle thing. As we grow older, thoughts and sensations from earlier years, once so clear, become muddled before fading away completely. The loss isn't felt -- you can't miss what you can't remember. At first, the feeling of losing something can be disconcerting; the lack of control can only be fought by detailed journals and obsessive recall, but as time goes on, such things become tiresome.

It was only after the third journal that Dean gave up recording everything that happened to him in the tradition of his father. He tossed the volumes in the trunk under a stockpile of rock salt loads and boxes of ammunition bought states and years ago and didn't give them a second thought.

Of all the futures he would never write down, this was certainly one he won't lament over. Keeping pages white brought solace; never scribbling down the details of his imprisonment is a blessing in disguise. If given the choice, he'd erase the memories from his mind, sever the ties from consciousness to wherever the past is stored, and wander through life with nothing in his head but a blank slate.

Trade the good for the disappearance of the bad.

Estrella leaves him alone most of the time; he attributes it to a fear of the unknown, and curses his new status as a "freak of nature." Their Laws are strict and binding, he knows that much from those books he should have paid more attention to, and even though they have little to no control over the human population, they like to pretend they do. Magic, they believe, such as Glamour, belongs in their realm, not the human one, and Dean thinks Estrella doesn't exactly know what to do with him. Because those same Laws protect others from their realm from the torments usually inflicted on unsuspecting humans.

Does she treat him as close to an equal as she can, or a human captured for entertainment?

Then again, the Unseelie Court is controlled by politics like any other governing body, and while Dean doesn't know much about their inner workings, he knows back where he belongs, a deviation from the norm would be held indefinitely for tests and study. He doubts the underbelly of the world of darkness would be so kind; his thoughts soon center on what Estrella has in store for him even if part of his mind, the logical, rational part often shoved aside by instinct, tells him he's playing right into her hands.

She does give him food -- an apple and some nuts -- a day later. Keeping time becomes a moot point as more information about fae float to the surface. Time has no meaning in the faerie realms, and while to him it may feel like days, the only timekeeper in this place is his mind.

Dean spends his free time running his hands over the walls, searching for a crack in the stone he knows keeps him in, not this white, textured wallpaper that makes the room feel like a turn of the century parlor. There's some here and there, and soon the armchairs are scattered about, marking different deviations in the stone. He grumbles, swears, and begins having conversations with the brother who abandoned him just to hear his own voice.

When he begins to believe all those gruesome tales of torture at the hands of fae are nothing more than exaggerated accounts, Dean awakens from a short nap in chains, thick silver rubbing against the soft skin of his wrists and ankles. He flails, pulling against his new restraints, but only manages to scratch himself up more and dislocate his shoulder.

She's chained him across the room from the water he's grown accustomed to drinking. He sees it as a mixed blessing; shivers wrack his body, accompanied by a cold sweat that soaks his clothes. Fever's made his mind foggy, and maybe he was awake when she chained him up. Dreams and reality are starting to blend together in this room of undying light, his eyes burning each time he blinks.

"The Queen has ruled on your fate," Estrella's voice reaches through the fog, her figure slowly coming into focus. She's standing above him, pale like a vampire out of a black and white movie he'd watch at four am.

"How lucky for me. Never been judged by a queen before," Dean quips. His voice is strong from conversations bounced off the walls. He shifts, bending one knee in front of himself, back straight against the wall. Casual. Conversational.

Estrella howls with laughter and throws a kick in his direction. Dean dodges it easily, but his eyes aren't what they once were, and she draws in Glamour to distract him long enough to land a single blow to his side.

Dean coughs. "You kick like a girl."

She leans down and grasps a handful of his hair in her hand, pulling his head up to hers, and runs a finger down his exposed neck. "Wouldn't you like to know what she decided?"

"Depends. Is it bad news?"

Estrella's finger comes to rest against the spot near the nape of his neck where blood pumps furiously under elastic skin. Whereas before, Dean found her icy skin uncomfortable, he welcomes it now, realizing, as she rests a hand on him, just how high his fever is.

"She's given you to me," Estrella replies, pressing against his neck. He feels his own heartbeat against her fingers and shifts his weight, reducing the pressure.

"I didn't know I was up for sale."

"Not anymore. You're a perversion of humanity, a freak of nature. Your kind was never meant to possess any of our abilities, and when I'm finished with you, none will."

"Sweetheart, that sounds like a death threat."

Estrella grins wickedly. "Oh, my boy, it is."

--

Everything makes sense, now. Estrella exiting the bar when he happened to be walking by. The mismatched images forced upon him when he awoke. Days alone with nothing to drink but rotting water, what he could now surmise was the cause of his fever. The lack of attention and food. Estrella effectively took all those skills ingrained in him for survival -- drinking and eating what he could, searching relentlessly for the door he _knew_ was there, short periods of sleep -- and used them to weaken his body and mind.

At first, she teases him; he comes out looking like a man unable to shave properly, with nicks and cuts dotting his skin, though his aren't limited to his face. Some are deep enough to bruise the skin around narrow lines of red, innocent-looking lines like someone took a red marker to him, then grabbed a blue or purple and colored with the artistic ability of a three year old.

She's kept him chained up, but even if he could move, Dean wouldn't use the water he's been drinking to clean the cuts and scrapes. They'll have to heal on their own; the water would only help infection along.

Not that he'd be able to tell. The white room pulls him from feverish dreams, creates a mirage the size and shape of his father, a disappointed, angry father chastising him for being so _weak_. _Break out of those chains, boy, and find the door!_ Hands rapidly losing color shake as they reach out for him, falling to his side as fast as they rose. Whatever it was -- because he's sure the whisper of shape isn't his father -- it has a point.

When Estrella returns, an audience of two fae scooting into the white room behind her, Dean's ready. Sleep may not come easy, but rest _does_, especially when he can't move more than two feet in any direction, so he feigns sleep. If she can tell he's faking it, she doesn't let on, and reaches down to awaken him with bony fingers.

When she's close enough for him to reach her shoulder, Dean springs into action. Wraps a hand around her right shoulder, the other gripping a chain, and pulls her forward, so close he can feel the cool comfort of her chilly skin, and it might have distracted a lesser man.

But not him.

He yanks her forward and wraps the chain around her neck, then loops it at her wrists. With his voice cold and low, Dean growls in her ear. "When I get out of these, I'm going to kill you."

Estrella laughs. Deep, enveloping laughter. Her ribcage vibrates against Dean's chest, up and down, until she can't laugh any longer. Light tremors shudder through her like aftershocks until she pulls up on the chains. _She_ hasn't been neglected for days on end, and despite her lithe form, possesses a good amount of strength. The chain falls from her wrists; she unloops it from her neck in a spin reminiscent of their ballroom dance and uses the inertia from her movement to send it spiraling into Dean's face.

Thick loops crash into fragile skin, thwacking against jawbone. Dean's head snaps to the right, neck cracking and popping with the movement, his head knocking into the wall. Bells ring inside his skull. Dean clenches his eyes shut, not feeling that prickling of sand caught under his eyelids, and bites his bottom lip to keep from crying out. Take it like a man. If you don't react, they'll leave you alone.

They don't.

"Threaten me again," Estrella shouts. This time, she aims for his arm, sending waves of pain up through his elbow to his already floundering brain.

It isn't enough to keep him from throwing words in her face. "I'm going to kill you, you fae bitch." He pauses, pulling together the blood in his mouth to spit it onto the floor. His tongue roams his mouth, searching for missing or broken teeth, and finds all intact. "And your little friends, too."

Behind Estrella, the fae wince.

Dean figures the point is to keep him alive for as long as possible, Estrella and her parade of acquaintances extracting enjoyment from each slice and discoloration decorating his skin. Red and white and blue all over, swelling with patriotic pride. Their only enjoyment comes from watching the colors on his skin blend together over a steady wash of pale peach, and soon, even that begins to wane.

Starts with a bang, ends with a whimper.

Except he has yet to whimper.

--

In retrospect, Dean Winchester figures he was a prisoner of Estrella and the Unseelie for a few days. In their clutches, it felt like an eternity. Days and days of nothing but short naps and shivers that turn to convulsions strong enough to rattle his lungs and steal his breath; the fever grows and soon he feels as if his brain is on fire, boiling like an unwatched pot left on the stove too long.

He pushes that aside. There's nothing he can do for it, and thus, no point in worrying. Dwelling on that you can't control only splits your focus, and he's been finding it harder and harder to even keep himself conscious.

The white room catches his attention. He lets his eyes wander over every detail, from the crown molding to the plain baseboards. Textured wallpaper covers the space in between, embossed with swirls from the turn of the century accompanied by splays of leaves found on old china. He never noticed the details before, but soaks them in now. Five armchairs, gold leafed legs and molding, plush red cushions. A fireplace along one wall.

Analyzing the room makes him feel like a grown up visiting someplace he knew as a child -- the house in Lawrence, once so large and spacious, lacked the dimensions his memory served up. Here, the room shrinks in on him until the wall across from him can be brushed with his fingertips if he moves far enough. The chairs are clustered together, and he realizes -- _shit!_ -- she's changing the size and moving the chairs marking possible exits.

"God _damnit_," he says aloud, voice vibrating back at him.

"God has no place here, my pet," Estrella says. He can't see her, but knows she's there, watching. She's always watching, waiting for some sign of weakness she can exploit, some action so pitiful, it'll give her the ultimate thrill. "Just me."

"And that bitch of a queen," Dean calls back. "So help me, when I get my hands on her..."

He feels a chill cross his brow, but doesn't see anything. Days of observing Glamour and beauty has made him forget about the other realm, the human realm, devoid of magic and trickery. She's in front of him, but not wearing her Glamour, and he hates that he can't see her.

The idea that he'll be blind in the real world -- his world -- hits him square in the chest -- or maybe that's Estrella? _Holy shit_, he thinks, _I'm fucking blind_. That thought cuts through him, though not physically, right between his now useless eyes. You can't reverse something like this with spells or teas; only Estrella could, and he doubts she would even if moments from death.

Something tickles his nose. Dean reaches up to brush it away, angry at how heavy his arm feels. As soon as he lets the near-limp limb, he feels the tickling again, this time coming in a steady drip.

Cold and moist. Falling in clumps of solid snowflakes, Dean feels more and more, the sensation creeping up his legs as sound finally reaches his ears; it's the sound of something falling, and sounds suspiciously like dirt or sand.

"No one insults the Queen of Air and Darkness," Estrella chides, a parent speaking to a child.

The feeling's climbing his legs and reaches his stomach. Whatever it is -- and Dean's sure _something's _there, just as Estrella had been moments before -- sinks into the cuts and nicks on his skin, inflamed skin burning. He doesn't feel more than mild discomfort, though. The fever's elevated his body temperature, and whatever's falling, while he _knows_ it'll cause some sort of infection, holds a candle to his sweaty, fevered body.

Higher. Climbs up his stomach and presses on his chest. Dean reaches out into the white room, but finds his arms are pinned to his sides. He_ can't see anything_. His other senses shift into overdrive, each grain of sand against his skin picked up by touch, smell recognizing the musty odor of wet dirt.

It's everything and nothing at the same time. Infinity and a black hole. They meet at his chest and squeeze his lungs between it and the wall. Dean struggles against the invisible force pouring into the white room, but finds he's only able to manage short, spastic gasps.

Estrella laughs from her perch. "If it were up to her, you'd be dead already. And yet you laugh in the face of my mercy."

"Mercy," Dean wheezes. "You need a dictionary?"

Up, around his throat, and those wheezes turn into gasps. Dean takes as deep a breath as his lungs will allow and closes his mouth. Sand and dirt -- both feelings at once, yet it's not a mixture -- play over dry lips, topple over the top one, and flares up his nose.

He can't breathe. He tries to capture a few gasps of air through his nose, and finds the amount of particles he sucks up is increasing. Puff, puff, wheeze. His father always told him panic is the enemy of rational thought, but as he feels his mind slipping and the invisible force crashing down on him, he starts to let the panic eat away at his steel resolve.

When the grains cascade down the back of his throat, Dean clenches his eyes shut. Lungs burn, mind revolts, and Estrella's cackling lulls him to sleep like some kind of demented lullaby.


	3. Part 1, Chapter 3

_After all the requests and demands for an update, here it is. :) Just to note: this author goes by the idea that Dean was 5 when Mary died, as that is what it says in the pilot's script. Special thanks to koyote19 (on livejournal) for taking time from her hectic schedule and beta'ing this for me. She's an amazing beta and author, and if you haven't, go read her fic. Her story was the inspiration for this one. _

_I've been incredibly stuck with this fic for the last few days, so feed the muse, please, and help me write to more! _

**These Crimes of Illusion**

_Chapter 1.3_

Before her death -- murder -- Mary Winchester taught her son how to swim.

Lawrence had a public pool on the other side of the city, a twenty minute drive on good days, and Mary took the trip when the heat of summer became too much and sweat made her shirt stick to her back. She'd gather up Dean, pack a bag of snacks and water and a few towels decorated with Disney characters, and put it all in the car.

She wasn't able to do anything more than splash with her son in the kiddy area until he turned four and insisted on going in the "big people pool." They'd stay in the shallow end, Dean balanced on the stairs, and practice things like kicks and paddles, his chubby feet splashing in and out of the water. Mary would tickle those small feet with pearls as toes, laughing with him as he wiggled in the water like a fish.

Weeks went by until Mary pulled Dean from the steps and set him free in the water, grinning from ear to ear as he moved between outstretched hands; parent to parent, when John came with on his days off. Blond hair bobbed above the water when he _really_ took to the water and dove under it, small bubbles coming to the surface before he reached his father.

Swimming felt as natural to him as breathing, and when that summer drew to a close with the turning of leaves and the pool was finally closed, Dean would practice his kicks on the edge of the couch, feet flying into the air.

There was a feeling of buoyancy that came with swimming in the water, and at each motel his father dragged him to in the years that followed, Dean would find the pool and spend hours in it, just swimming and floating and wondering if his mother would have taken him to swim lessons if she'd lived. He'd push dead leaves out of his path with pruney hands, dive under the water, and watch the world through the rippling surface.

The world looks like that now, as Dean, now grown up and no longer searching out those pools, cracks open his eyes and wonders how the hell he can see, let alone breathe. His right side is cold, pressed against the tile flooring; he's curled up on his side, knees drawn close to his chest, right arm -- swollen, bruised, and probably broken from when Estrella whipped it with a chain -- stuck out, shoulder twisted painfully.

Water drips on his forehead. Panic runs through him; had he shifted while unconscious and ended up under the water? Dean lifts his left arm -- the right isn't responding when he tries to call it up -- and moves to brush what he believes is more sour water from his forehead.

"Stop moving."

While it sounds like the command his brain's been screaming at him since Estrella sliced at his skin with razor sharp nails, the voice isn't his.

A hand pushes his back down to his side. More water drips onto his forehead, then the brushing of cloth against his blazing skin. The fever's raging now, spread across his entire body, though that could be the infection he knows has to be growing in those deeper cuts.

Or maybe not.

Dean cracks his eyes open wider, and they become large when they see Estrella sitting next to him, cloth in her hand. She dips it into a bowl of water and brushes it over his skin. Down his cheeks, across his throat. She's even kind enough to squeeze some into his mouth.

What the _hell_ is going on?

"Punishment is not without its rewards," Estrella answers. Her voice has taken on a sweet, sugary tone, softer and kinder. "I felt, perhaps, that a lack of Glamour may be a bit harsh, but you reacted spectacularly."

And _fuck_, he gets it. Pride and dignity, two things he lost during her last trick, and now, God _damnit_, he's being _rewarded_ for his whimpers.

But the cool water feels so good, and he reflexively leans into the cloth each time she brushes it across his skin, noticing -- but not caring -- that his shirt is gone and his jeans are shredded, and she can clean his wounds without moving any clothing. And she does, which makes a small part of Dean's mind -- the part still focused on _escape_ and _survival_ -- wonder _why_. Estrella's a woman with twisted motivations who plans each and every detail; her sudden turn of heart is uncharacteristic, kind when she's sadistic.

Dean squares his jaw, though steeling a reserve already lost doesn't accomplish much. All it does is anger Estrella just enough to sweep the cloth a bit harder than usual, tearing across deeper cuts on his sides with icy perfection. The temperature in the room drops quickly, the water beading on his skin turning from cool comfort to chilly discomfort. Estrella doesn't stop, though, just loads the cloth up with more water and holds it on his stomach. His breath comes out in visible puffs. On his stomach, the cloth blossoms with frost, then freezes solid into a block of ice.

"Hey..." he breathes, frowning.

Estrella's expression blossoms into a wicked smile; she presses the cloth turned ice onto his skin. "Haven't you heard of the thin line between pleasure and pain?"

If the cool cloth was comforting, this had the opposite effect. The icy chill spread through his stomach, wrapping around his sides before it began to burn. That frostbite, freezer burn type that heats and cools at the same time. It cascades over him in waves, cold and hot, the fever losing out in a battle between heat and ice.

And _damn_, did it hurt.

He swam inside his own head, reeling back against the wall, pressed where floor met ceiling. There's a shift in his perception, the white room blinking in and out of existence until there's nothing but perpetual blackness swimming in front of him. For a moment, Dean fears he's passed out and this is the afterlife, or what comes immediately before it, but Estrella sways in front of him, now standing.

The cloth and the bowl are gone, but the coldness isn't.

Estrella's as transparent as a ghost, and _that's_ something Dean can deal with. Rock protrudes into his back, scratching against it as he pushes himself into a seated position, head pounding with each beat of his heart. He blinks, breathes deeply through his nose, and opens his eyes. It isn't Estrella who's swaying, it's his vision, and he works to steady himself.

"What the hell?" A hoarse, scratchy whisper.

"Darkness brings comfort, don't you think?" she asks. "It's a blanket you can wrap around you when you're feeling alone." Estrella circles him. "Abandoned. Has your father come for you yet? Do you still believe he will?"

"Fuck you," Dean manages.

"You think a lot," she continues. "I read all your thoughts. Sometimes I find you let on more there," -- she taps her head -- "than out here. It really is unfair, you know."

If there's a response that doesn't involve calling her crazy, or any variation thereof, Dean doesn't know it. He resorts to _thinking_ it, which, in lieu of her recent reveal, isn't any better than _saying_ it.

Unprotected thoughts are dangerous. Planning anything takes conscious effort, a series of interconnected ideas that require meditation, if only for a few seconds. With Estrella sensing everything passing through his mind, Dean resorts to blanking everything out; burying emotions since childhood has trained him well, and he relishes in the absence of thought. A blank slate. Fixing his eyes on the wall across from him, Dean falls into a half-slumber.

She caught the crazy thought, though, before he closed down, and hauls him to his feet, holding him even with her eyes. He observes she's a few inches taller than him, thin and wiry, built like fae through the generations. His feet dangle above the dirty ground, scratching at it when he swings them just right with chapped toes.

He lets his thoughts empty from him, leaving behind nothing more than an empty jar. She searches and searches for some kind of response, and finds nothing.

"Not fair!" she screeches. The hand wrapped around his throat tightens, the chains melt away, and she tosses him across the room, a rag-doll thrown away when something new comes along.

Dean slams against the wall, all arms and legs and a crack of skull against rock. A mind without thoughts is easier to maintain when your entire body's on fire, when pain radiates with each movement of your eyes or pump of blood through tired veins. The darkness that marks even his waking hours lulls him towards sleep; no marked difference between being awake and asleep gives little incentive toward one or the other, and he's already so tired.

So very tired.

It's hard to _not_ think. To keep himself from dwelling on his dire situation, thinking over exits and survival and why the hell his father hasn't shown up yet to get him out of there. Thoughts come pouring out from where he hid them, the dam loosened by the swirling in his head. He _has_ to get out of there --

"Not alive, you won't," Estrella interrupts his train of thought.

She's in front of him again, a movement he saw clearly -- thank _God_ he saw _something_ clearly -- hands resting on his shoulders, pulling him up, slamming him against the wall. He doesn't get _why_ she's doing this now, when he can't even find the strength to lift his own head. It hangs, chin touching his chest, and rocks back and forth as his back hits the wall over and over again.

_Shit_, if she cracks his spine...

Her eyes close, a smile crossing her stretched features. She's _enjoying_ this, basking in the pain overwhelming Dean so completely, he can't remember anything else. Was there life beyond this, away from Estrella and her version of a slow death?

With each slam, she erases a memory. Childhood. His mother. His first hunt with his father, chasing after a poltergeist in Iowa. At one time, his head rolls back and hits the wall in time with his rushing pulse, cracking against the rock again. He winces visibly, and Estrella shrieks with laughter. She changes tactics, and tosses him again, this time, his chest hitting the wall he'd been up against before.

She continues this, wall to wall, Dean a ping-pong ball in her quest for satisfaction and entertainment. He bounces around until he doesn't feel anything anymore, just a dull chill when his body hits the wall or ground. Estrella's hands don't even affect him. Gone are sensations of hot and cold, of pain or pleasure. There simply exists Estrella's laughter and the blanket of darkness veiling the world he can no longer see.

One more wall, and she drops him. Dean falls in a heap, eyes pinched closed, limbs loose and lying where they landed. Estrella breathes hard while Dean's breath is coming out in short gasps, a distinct wheezing that echoes in the room.

Estrella stalks towards him. "There is only one thing to do with a broken toy," she says, shaking her head.

"Fix it?" Dean manages. His childhood was a steady stream of broken toys fixed with tape or thread when it could be spared; most came out looking as much like battered soldiers as him and his brother.

She's sad as she shakes her head. "No, no, not here. Humans can't stay here."

"I ate your food."

"Food I retrieved from out in the world," she replies. "You're so much fun, too. But the Queen handed down her judgment. You're too dangerous."

"Dangerous?" Dean scoffs. His chide turns to a harsh cough, his chest shuddering under the pressure.

Estrella streaks forward in Glamour, and Dean relinquishes action to instinct. Thought's left behind in the dust; he moves without thinking, without premeditation, because he knows if she reaches him, he's dead.

--

Dean's arms may be uncooperative, but his leg's aren't. Covered in Glamour, he can see Estrella perfectly, her black hair, her lacy dress, pale skin that's never seen the sun. Her face is twisted in conflict -- her voice betrayed her words; she's become attached to Dean and doesn't agree that he needs to be killed, not now, after his eyes are gone.

She's on him, and his legs lash out from those primordial instincts handed down since the dawn of time; he kicks out, one foot hitting her shin, the other, tripping her. Estrella loses her balance and flails before bracing herself with her hands inches from the wall, her breath visible and bouncing off the stone. She whirls with that dancer's grace so instinctive to her, hands like claws reaching for him. Dean backs up, legs slipping on the floor as they push him farther from Estrella's grasp.

"I doubted her," Estrella's saying, watching him with surprise. "I doubted her words. Forgive me, my Queen. He _is_ dangerous."

She starts towards him. "After all I have done to you. Most men would be dead by now. Dead or unable to move."

Dean's back hits the wall -- he winces, his back a mass of bruises and cuts -- and his legs push harder to let him slide up it. He's standing, now, bracing himself with his left hand on the wall, right arm, broken and bruised, stretched across aching ribs.

"Yeah, well," -- he shuffles, one foot sliding across the floor, then the other, rocks he doesn't feel biting into them -- "we've already established I'm not ordinary."

Even in his weakened state, he moves faster than most could, springing from one wall to the other for support when Estrella comes toward him. Her anger keeps her from maintaining human form; Glamour shimmers around her with each movement, giving the illusion of several of her at once, each one step behind the other.

She twirls, a giant arching circle, to come up next to him, but Dean's watched her for days, knows how she likes to move. He's onto the next wall in the shrunken cave, hands groping blindly for support. Putting so much pressure on his legs to keep him moving shows him how weak they really are. They buckle and shake, loose noodles instead of strong, steady limbs, threatening to give out at any second.

He moves forward, hand on the wall, until he runs out of wall and falls forward, pitching to the right. His knees knock against stairs cut into the rock, and _hell_, he's found the way out.

Estrella grabs him from behind, nails digging into the fragile skin of his back, and finally, after days and days, he cries out. Just a little, but it's enough to give Estrella pause.

"Oh," she gasps, fingers still on him.

It gives Dean enough time to push back from the stairs into her. Sharp nails dig mercilessly into his back, and he's screaming as he falls back onto Estrella. He flips, pinning her down, and grins that cocky, wide grin he hasn't sported for awhile.

"Hey. Look who's on top now," he comments. Wheezes and coughs, sending blood sputtering into her face.

She wipes it away with pale fingers and brings it to her lips, licking them clean with a pale tongue.

"Oh, you are one sick, twisted bitch, aren't you?" Dean can't compete with her in strength, but he can with leverage. From here, he slams her head into the ground a few times -- he knows it won't do much good, her being a magical being and all, but the reversal's enough to confuse her long enough for Dean to -- running purely on adrenaline now -- dash toward the stairs and up them.

His feet flounder for a moment until he pretends he's dashing up the stairs of a haunted mansion in the middle of the night, or running from monsters he believes were behind him when little and impressionable. He doesn't move at half the speed as then, but it's fast enough. Estrella won't be dazed for too long -- he can hear the shift of her lace dress behind him -- but he doesn't care. He's going to go down swinging or not at all.

The room above -- as large as a church, with ceilings just as high -- is filled with Glamour. His eyes take a moment to adjust before he's walking toward an assortment of weapons hanging on the wall; he passes others like him, other humans captured, and feels his stomach flip when he realizes this is a torture chamber, and he's been stuck in one of the lower rooms.

Groans and cries fill in behind him, a chorus of torment and pain. There are no fae here, just men and a few women, bound and gagged or unconscious, the ones who are awake crying out to him for help. It hurts to walk past them, to leave their cries unanswered, _damnit_. His only solace comes in maybe, just maybe, if he can kill Estrella, some will be spared.

The cynical part of him knows there's little chance of that.

But he's plucked a sword off the wall and Estrella's shrieking behind him like a wild banshee foretelling his death. He turns, weapon held out in front of him, and she's so bright with Glamour, sliding the silver sword through her isn't hard at all. It's dragging it up and slicing up her body that takes the most effort, and sweat drenches his body when she's down on the ground, he's down on the ground, the sword stretched between them.

Dean waits a moment, stares into Estrella's dead eyes, and slowly gets to his feet.

--

Out in the real world, he can't see a fucking thing.

Slipping through Glamour-covered hallways proved easy enough; Dean figured wherever he was had been Estrella's domain, and her death caused her friends to flee. He marked the entrance -- between two trees in a small grove -- in the hope of returning when his world wasn't so red and black to rescue the others, but doubts many will live.

Doubts perhaps he may, if his current condition is any indication.

Not due to injury -- those, he could deal with. The human body is a marvelous machine capable of almost any feat you throw at it. Skin can re-grow, muscles mend, bruises fade. But those required care, a place to rest, someone to help clean wounds and stretch bandages over scarred skin, and as Dean wanders in the dark -- literally -- he begins to wonder if he'll be able to find another human being.

The Glamour faded a few feet from the trees, thrusting him into complete and total darkness. A state of being that fails to frighten him, not after so many years of hunting what lurks there, armed with knives and guns and a keen sense of right and wrong. What _does_ escape him is _how_ he'll contact his father -- hell, _anyone_ at this point would be nice.

Leaves crunch under his feet, then the rough roll of rocks and pebbles against worn down grass that gives way to dirt. He stumbles over the edge of a curb, and a horn blares next to him, fading in the distance as the car continues on its way.

Civilization.

Dean sticks to the curb, kicking a foot against it every ten seconds counted off in his head to make sure he's walking in somewhat a straight line and not out into traffic. Ticks off another ten seconds, breathes deeply through his nose, out his mouth, makes another kick. Both arms are wrapped around his chest, now, protecting bruised ribs and jostled organs. His fingers dig into his sides, clenching feverish skin as if that alone will hold him together.

Count, breathe, kick.

The walk feels like several agonizing miles uphill in the middle of summer with the sun licking his back with wave after wave of heat that gives him sunburn. He hasn't had any in a few years -- t-shirts and daytime sleeping to hunt at night have taken away any chance of lounging in the sun -- but he remembers getting sunburned when he was younger, shoulders and nose peeling even after his father slathered on the chamomile.

One foot in front of the other is all he can manage until the sounds of cars get louder, engines humming in idle. Perhaps prayers to God haven't been wasted on a man intent on ignoring him, because he _knows_ those sounds; it's a gas station, full of cars and people and lights, though he can't see any of it.

The idling engines are a foghorn in the dark, leading him forward with a spark of hope. Shuffling through the parking lot, he wonders if people are staring, or if they haven't noticed him at all. Humans are like that, he's noticed, ignoring what they don't want to see. Most of the time, it's monsters they're denying, and he wonders if he's a monster now, a freak on the outskirts of society because of what he can and cannot see.

A bell rings to his right. The station's main building must be in that direction, the pumps ahead of him. A phone has to be somewhere, probably on one end or the other of the blacktop. His toes skim from the smooth cement of the curb to the rough, pot-marked blacktop of the station, and he starts to the left. Reaches his hands out in front of him, even with his waist to keep himself from attracting too much attention -- his father has to care for him, not any stranger and defiantly not a hospital.

Another prayer to the man above; let the booth be on this side of the parking lot, because his legs are about to give out and breathing is getting harder with each moment. Fumbles around, hands out, ears working overtime to pick up even the smallest of clues.

It comes as a busy signal beeping out of a receiver.

Dean almost cries from joy. He stumbles forward, catching himself on the side of the booth, and slips inside. Lets his hand rub over the keypad, counting three across and three down, and dials his father's cell phone collect.

One ring.

Dean's stomach catches in his throat, and he keeps the receiver pressed to his ear as he searches for clean air and retches. After his third heave, he hears something through the receiver that isn't a ring, and swipes his hand over his mouth.

"Dad?"

"Dean? Where the hell are you?"

There's something in the way his dad speaks that causes Dean to think his absence hasn't been noticed.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Dean shoots back. "I've been gone for _days_."

"Dean, you left the hotel room twenty minutes ago."

It all comes crashing down on Dean. The taunts about his father, the ease of his escape. Time has little meaning in the world of the fae, and he's learned that lesson the hard way.

"Hell," is all Dean can get out. His legs give way under him, and he slips down the wall of the booth with the screech of skin against plastic. The phone cord isn't long enough, and it drops from his hand to hang in the air. He wheezes and tries to breath but finds it hard. _Too_ hard.

His father's voice is frantic on the phone. "Dean, Dean! Where are you?"

"I don't know," he replies weakly, speaking to the air in general. "Fuck, I can't see a thing. She fucking _blinded_ me."

"Who?" the tiny voice asks.

"That fae bitch." Dean leans his head against the plastic and closes his eyes. "Damn, I'm wiped."

"Tell me where you are," his father demands, voice growing smaller and smaller as Dean feels his eyes close. "I'll come get you."

There's a comfort that comes with sleep, a deep ache so good, you can ignore the pain. Bones and muscles settle a bit, align themselves properly, and relax. Dean feels that wash over him; his spine straightens a bit despite his folded posture and sends jolts of new pain up and down his back. But it feels _good_, almost right, and he allows the feeling to wash over his limbs, down his legs, across his chest, through his arms.

He can't hear his father shouting his name, or the roar of a car peeling out of the gas station's parking lot. Just the pounding of his own blood running through his veins signifying he's still alive, still kicking, and that's enough for now.


	4. Part 1, Chapter 4

Sorry for the delay! I recently got a new job, full-time, and haven't had much free time. This chapter took a lot of work to get it into posting shape; many thanks to my beta for all her comments and support.

**These Crimes of Illusion**

_Chapter 1.4_

Having friends in law enforcement can be a double-edged sword. Most of the time John Winchester keeps his distance from anyone connected to the law, opting to play his cards close to his chest, nervous to reveal himself to those who could end his search. Then there are times he digs their phone numbers out of the pockets of his jacket of the back of his journal, un-crinkles the paper, and gives them a call.

He's already on the road, breaking the speed limit and blowing lights, before he finishes dialing the number scrawled on the back of an old Wal-Mart receipt. Without any information, John trusts his intuition to guide him in the right direction; he turns north and runs the engine hot enough to feel the gears shift in the automatic transmission.

Three rings, then a groggy, overworked voice answers. "Detective Lewis."

"Ben, it's John." Impatient, John blows through a stop sign and ignores the honks of protest from other drivers. "I need a trace, ASAP."

"Yeah, yeah, give me a second," Ben Lewis replies in that lazy Southern accent of his, words rolling around his mouth like molasses. "Okay. Number?"

"Last call made to this cell."

John can hear typing on the other end. "You okay? You sound a bit stressed."

"It's an emergency. Dean's stranded, needs a pick-up." _Stranded and hurt and talking about fae and missing time_. He pictures all sorts of things while he drives, waiting for the computer to spit out a number and location. Gruesome, horrible images that are only modified versions of those he's dreamed up for years, ever since that first hunt when he placed a gun in his son's small hand.

"Oh, man. Yeah. It's coming up now." A pause while Ben reads the screen. "354 Benton Ave. Looks like a gas station."

"Thanks, Ben."

"Hope everything works out."

John hangs up without a good-bye -- he said good-bye to too many good men while in the Marines, when bombs exploded overhead and bullets flew from out of the jungle. Good-bye was so _final_, an ending to a film without a sequel, and he hasn't been able to bring himself to say it since returning to his home soil.

He tries to remember if he said anything when Dean declared a need for air earlier that evening and went for a walk.

The gas station's brightly lit on the left side of Benton Avenue, a main road cutting through the state marking the eastern border of the city they've called home for the last week or so. Time weaves in and out of existence for John, though there's no magical influence in his case.

The world slows as he pulls into the parking lot, and it takes a moment for him to roll over to the phone booth. He can't see much, just the blue and white stripes decorating the booth to advertise the phone company. As he nears, John makes out a shoulder, an arm, and he hopes the red comes from nearby brake lights and not Dean.

John quickens his pace to a jog and pushes open the plastic door. "Hell, Dean!"

It hits Dean's bare feet; he mumbles and shifts, eyes blinking quickly. The sound of someone entering causes Dean to scuttle backwards, feet kicking out blindly in a feeble attempt to protect himself. "Dean," John repeats, crouching on the ground next to his son, reaching out to touch his face. It's hot to the touch under his trembling hand, alarmingly so.

"Dad?" Dean mumbles. Frightened, unfocused eyes stare back at John, ice blue and brighter than he believes genetics can produce; Dean's words come back to him -- _she fucking blinded me._

"Yeah, Ace, it's me."

Dean just sighs. Takes a moment to finally relax, tears forming in the edges of those foreign eyes streaking down dirt and blood covered cheeks, twin rivers cleaning his skin to show just how pale he is underneath.

"Took you long enough," he comments.

"Sorry about that," John replies. He's gathering Dean into his arms, flinching each time his fingers brush across another gash or cut or bruise. He notes the deepness of each, how some are shallow and superficial while others are deep and infected, all horrible because they're on his son. Dean's skin is rough and hot and doesn't resemble that soft, pure, _innocent_ skin he had when first born.

Smooth has given away to rough and scarred; broken. John's careful with Dean's right arm, his head, pulling him together and feeling he's small again, small and perfect and his first, still fitting in his arms like first time.

Dean coughs. "It must be bad," he says.

"Why do you say that?"

"You're hugging me, dude." Dean's left hand comes up to touch John's forehead. "Sure you don't have a fever?"

John laughs. Laughs until he's crying a bit. The radio in the Impala plays; he doesn't remember turning it on, but the song has a slow pace with a few guitar riffs. It reminds him they can't spend forever sitting here.

He hasn't carried his son in over twenty years. It all comes back to him as he walks towards the car.

* * *

Sweat drips down John's neck and back, his shirt sticking to him as he pushes through the motel room's red door. He's gone up against monsters and apparitions twice as strong as him, if not stronger, yet finds carrying his unconscious eldest son taps all of his endurance and then some. Dean slumbers blissfully after enduring two minutes in the Impala's passenger seat, finally succumbing to exhaustion and injury as John sped towards the motel. John maneuvers through the doorway, twisting sideways to avoid knocking Dean's feet into the doorframe, and slams the door closed with a booted foot.

God, was it possible for someone to be so pale?

He's seen Dean injured before; their line of work made it almost impossible to avoid scratches and close calls. But that was different, those were instances John could control, injuries he could treat and wave off. His sons were resilient, able to bounce back quickly, and damnit if he hadn't come to rely on that.

This, however, this was different.

John winces for his son as he gently puts Dean on the closest bed atop rumpled covers. Dean's head lolls to the right, short puffs of breath playing with the sheet, the only motion evident throughout his battered frame. John flicks on the light but doesn't look, not yet. He remembers the phone call clearly; every word etched into his mind like a memorized monologue performed hundreds of times.

_That fae bitch_.

John Winchester was a studious man, his collection of texts rivaling most libraries'. But his main asset is his practical knowledge, born from years of tracking and hunting creatures not of this world. Fae were creatures he preferred not to encounter -- their trickery wholly unpredictable -- but that was not to say he hadn't met one or two.

Seelie fae, that is. Those who live in the light, celebrating life, unlike the Unseelie hiding in the shadows, waiting to pounce on whatever poor mortal happens by.

The temptation to look over Dean is too great, and while digging through his pack for a piece of cold iron, he glances over at the bed. Dean's never been a patient person, and adulthood hasn't helped him in that regard; he rarely stays still unless on the hunt or seriously contemplating. Seeing him so still twists at John until he realizes why; after so many days and months and years on the road, Dean tosses and turns in his sleep, disturbed even when he's supposed to forget the world.

Holding a dagger of iron in his hands, John pauses at the end of the bed to watch Dean sleep -- he can't think _unconscious_, because the repercussions of that are too great -- just stands there until the stains on the sheets jump-start his body. He shoves the knife into the doorjamb, makes sure it's secure, and grabs the first-aid kit from where he placed it next to his pack.

Smelling salts jump into his hand, and John feels -- _knows_ -- he needs to turn off that part of himself that screams _father_ and find an emotional vacuum to work in. Tears sit in his eyes; why hadn't he _known_? What had it been like to sit there for days, hoping someone was coming, but never knowing for sure?

Rationally, he knows blaming himself isn't logical. He does so anyway.

So the father mask stays on, if not crooked a bit. He places the kit on the nightstand beside the bed, takes a deep breath, and snaps the salts under Dean's nose.

The reaction's immediate. Dean's head swivels straight, eyes flying open, mouth wide open with silent words or screams, John can't -- and doesn't want to -- figure which. John allows his baby a moment to adjust. _God, are those his eyes?_ Then gets to work, hands steady as he reaches to the side and grabs antibacterial wipes.

"I'm sorry, son," he says, starting with the wounds he can see. "But you've got a concussion and I can't have you falling asleep for too long."

Dean's mouth flaps open and closed a few times before he can answer. "Yeah. Good idea."

Agreeing with his father presses harder on John's heart; after all this, Dean manages to keep his head and practically agree to torment through healing.

"You got some water or something?" Dean asks. There's a water bottle on the floor next to John's bed -- wandering through the jungles of Vietnam, some days with nothing to drink but swamp water treated with chlorine tablets -- has taught him the liquid's a commodity not to be wasted.

Plus, he finds his mouth is dry when woken up by nightmares.

John leans over and grabs it. "Think you can sit up for a moment?"

"Hell," Dean says, "for clean water, I'll do a flip."

"Oh?"

Dean's scooting up on the bed under his own power, but falters after a few seconds. Pauses, and tries again. John considers reaching out to help him, but doesn't know _how_ to anymore. Instead, he watches Dean's eyes, or what's replaced the hazel he's used to seeing there, and how they move around whenever something makes a sound -- outside, inside, next to him. His ears are his eyes.

"Yeah," comes Dean's response, a softer whisper, almost inaudible. He pants a bit, coughs once, and wipes his good hand across his forehead. John pulls some ibuprofen from the pack and places them firmly in Dean's hand.

They won't do much, but they're all he has to offer.

"Take these. You're burning up."

"I noticed."

He taught his sons to be alert and analytical, and while Sam visibly excelled in that area, taking to books and surroundings like a fly to paper, Dean's skills from noticing details and acting on them through some sort of personal prioritizing.

"What else?" asks John. Dean gulps down the water a bit too quickly, and John takes the bottle back from him. "Not too much. Give your stomach some time to catch up. Did they feed you?"

A slow, controlled breath escapes Dean's lips, his thirst outweighing his stomach's discomfort. John uses the pause to clean more of the wounds on Dean's chest, wincing in time with Dean when the cloth runs over the deeper ones. They need antibiotics, and a glance in the kit reveals two pathetic pills rolling around in an old prescription bottle.

Dean's chest heaves under John's care. "Yeah. Said it was from up here."

"You wouldn't have been able to leave if it weren't." Stay to procedure, find out all the information you can. Don't think about the scars these marks are going to leave and the small, curved suture needle you'll have to pull out because several are too deep. "Tell me what happened."

He cleans a few more cuts, all those he can see on Dean's chest and legs and arms and _God, what the hell had happened to his son?_ John's threading the needle before he realizes Dean hasn't answered him, and looks up. Ice blue eyes roll around, struggling to focus with eyelids dropping. Dean snaps them back up, they fall; he struggles to stay awake.

"Dean," John says more sternly, using the voice reserved for hunts and punishments. "Tell me what happened."

When Dean doesn't make a move in response to the needle entering his skin, John's worry increases. Even dazed, the body has reflexive responses to pain, to a pin-prick or a stubbed toe. But Dean, he doesn't move, doesn't even make any indication, verbal or otherwise, that he's felt a thing.

In and out with even, rhythmic motions usually used to patch up bullet wounds or machete cuts.

"I was," -- Dean pauses before he can get started to clear his throat, and John allows him a little more water -- "was taking a walk, saw a woman -- "

"I see."

"Hey," Dean replies, taking the break his father's offered. "She walked by me."

"Walked by?" John asks. "You didn't engage her in a bar, or say anything?"

"No. I saw her."

"Elaborate."

Dean hesitates. "Next thing I knew, I was in a cave and the bitch was dancing with me."

John finishes with the deepest cut, and moves onto the next. It's not like Dean to hold something back, and he knows his son's doing just that -- hesitating, leaving out the detail that got him into this mess.

Part of him hurts with the implication he can't be trusted.

"How long?"

"Four, maybe five days," comes the reply. John's heart falls -- five days hoping for a rescue that would never come. If there ever was a way to fail his son, this is it.

That explains the hollow cheeks and eyes, the dark circles; all signs of extended lack of sleep, malnutrition and, from the way Dean drinks the water, dehydration.

Extended bruising stretches across his chest, wrapping around his sides; deep purple in some places. John suspects bruised or cracked ribs; labored breathing supports that theory, but there's nothing to be done for ribs in any condition. The bruises fade into bright red blotching on his stomach, the marks of some sort of burn. John notes chaffed wrists. The broken arm. Scratches across the left side of his face, lines of red against deep blue and purple.

And that's just what he can see.

Damnit, why did he pull back to see the full picture? _Focus on the details, go from one to the next_. He's broken his own rule.

His next question would have been for Dean to outline what exactly was done to him, but John doesn't have the heart to ask anymore; he can see, in startling blue, purple, and red _exactly _what happened, and even if he doesn't know the details, his imagination's more than willing to fill them in.

"God, Dean, I'm sorry," he whispers, the apology escaping without his permission, echoing in silence.

Dean's eyes somehow find John's face. "Don't worry about it." The needle dips a bit too deep as Dean coughs. Deep, wet coughs. John corrects the direction and finishes.

"I should have known. There have been reports of fae in this area; I never thought we'd encounter one."

"Yeah, well," -- Dean pauses, takes a deep, rattling breath, and appears nervous -- "you didn't know I'm a freak."

John stops mid-motion, brown eyes widening against stagnant tears. Their lives pulled them from the mainstream -- their distance from normality could be measured by the location of Sam, his youngest acting as some sort of barometer -- cast them in unfavorable light, but they were _human_. The monsters, those _true_ outcasts of society, were the freaks, the abnormalities.

Not them. Never them.

It takes great difficulty to keep his face a straight mask, so he returns to the task at hand, moving faster. Blood and puss well up when he pinches the bright red skin together, mixing together to form a new shade of pink, and damn if he wants that to continue.

"What are you talking about?" he asks.

"You think she just picked me up on random?" Dean retorts. His voice is growing stronger, and John can feel his body vibrating with shivers under his touch. "C'mon, dad. You know it doesn't happen like that."

His own words come back to him._ There are no coincidences_.

His fingers brush against Dean's side as he moves through a stitch. "The fever's not going down," John states.

"No."

"God damnit, Dean. What the hell did they want?"

"She," Dean says quietly. "I could _see_ her."

John just lets out a frustrated breath and ties off the string. "Turn over," he orders. "The sooner we finish, the sooner you can get some rest."

He helps Dean onto his stomach, one of those resting tears in his eyes threatening to leak down his face when Dean yelps and whimpers through the movement, small mewling cries coming between strained huffs of breath. One look at Dean's back, and John attributes Dean's steel reserve as the reason he hasn't been crying bloody murder the entire time John's been questioning him.

Once smooth skin is now a crisscross of cuts and tears, dried blood mixing in with deep purple, blending so well John can't tell where one ends and the other begins. _Every ending is something else's beginning_. Dean's back is one huge bruise, the kind that leak blood into that thin layer of skin just under the top-most layer for several days instead of fading after the first 48 hours. He's afraid to even touch it, let alone clean it and sew up the nasty gashes running horizontally across it.

He needs the conversation as distraction just as much as Dean at this point. "Explain."

"Damnit, Dad, I could see through her Glamour," Dean yells, voice rising the moment John prods a swollen and infected cut. "Jesus fucking Christ, that hurts."

"Your back's pretty marked up, Ace."

"Happens when," -- another prod, and Dean's breath catches in his throat -- "when they slam you against the wall. A lot."

"She was stronger than you?"

"Yeah. All I had was some fucking nuts and rotten water."

That explains the fever, and the pliability of his skin. It's grey where there aren't bruises, stretching when it should snap back into place.

"When you say you could see _through_ her Glamour -- "

"I mean I could see through it. How is that difficult? She _looked_ pretty at first, but hell, she was a _dog_ underneath."

"And now?"

"Nothing. Once I got out, I couldn't see a thing."

John nods, taking on the attitude of a disconnected surgeon. "Blind to anything but Glamour."

"How's that for punishment?"

"You probably frightened them. Humans aren't supposed to be able to see it unless they've been given the ability as a gift."

"So _that's_ why they went and did all this." Dean scoffs. "Wanting me dead and all."

"If they want you dead, they won't just give up."

"I killed her fucking executioner."

John lets out the breath he didn't know he was holding. Hearing this gives comfort, just a bit, but enough to drain some of the tension he's holding in his shoulders. Pride swells within him; even captured and hurt, Dean managed wonderfully on his own against an unknown foe.

"Hell," Dean says. "I feel like squished grape."

Red skin is okay, if splotchy and caused by the sun. But purple and blue were never meant to be colors readily worn on the human body, no matter the circumstances. John takes his son's comments as a good sign; he's awake and lucid and while he still flinches less than John would like, he takes what he can get at this point.

"You hate grapes."

"So? Doesn't mean I can't feel like one." There's a pause. "And I don't hate them. Sam does."

Moments like these remind John he's missed so much of his sons' childhood. He doesn't know what his children like or dislike, are allergic to, find delicious, or, hell -- eat on a regular basis. Dean eats whatever John puts in front of him with little complaint -- he left that to his picky younger brother, handing him the food he'd tolerate from his own plate to keep an argument over 'you eat what you're given' from starting.

And while most children grew out of this phase after a few years, Sam remained stuck in it until his metabolism and height caught up to him.

"She was clever, I'll give her that," Dean sighs, breaking into John's thoughts of his absent son. "It was like she knew what I was thinking before I did."

"She probably did, Dean," John reminds him. "Some fae have psychic abilities."

"Yeah, I figured that when she read my mind like an open fucking book. Man, that sucks."

"It's a bit invasive, isn't it?"

Dean laughs, his frame shuttering more than it's been for the last ten minutes. "Remind me to get a tin hat next time I go out."

"Aluminum would probably work better."

"Yeah, well, I'd look like a dork."

Dean's quips keep John from looking too closely at the wounds he's cleaning and mending, from seeing the big picture again because if he does, he might not be able to hold everything back. The pair takes solace in their light conversation as John finishes up and bandages up his handiwork. Dean says he feels like a marshmallow, now, all puffy and unable to move much, and reassures his father both him and Sam enjoy marshmallows.

The fever has yet to break, but the bandages are new and wouldn't react well to water, so John tucks Dean under two layers of thick comforters, remembering the way his mother would use warmth to break a fever. Dean doesn't complain a bit, just lets his father tuck him in and kiss him on the forehead. He's asleep before John straightens out, and doesn't hear his father lock the bathroom door behind him.

John runs the shower, but opts to wash his hands in the sink instead. Pink and red swirl down the drain, stark against the white porcelain and silver fixture in the middle, though some gets caught in the rim near the drain and John scrubs at it with his fingertips.

When did this turn from something they could handle to something else? Or had it always been this way, his eyes so clouded by revenge he couldn't see the pain he was causing his family?

Or does this failure feel so painful because he's been consumed by something else entirely? Something else that took his attention from Dean long enough for his boy to get taken by a fae and tortured?

Could he be trusted to watch Dean's back? Or would his obsession be the end of both of them?

* * *

John binds Dean's right arm while he sleeps. He figures anything else he needs to check can be done while his son slumbers, though not peacefully as John would have liked. He sits on the empty area of the bed, reading through computer print-offs and old newspapers, large and daunting because Dean looks so _small_ lying on the left-hand side, blankets pilled upon him and pulled up to his chin.

They've become his life, as of late, instead of the hunt and his family, what's left of it. Sam's departure cut almost as deep as Mary's death, leaving a light pink scar beside the open sore that is Mary's absence from his life. Curling paper from days long gone, yellowed newsprint and black type that blurs in front of him from hours of reading. John lives in the past, not the present, and defiantly not the future.

He's reading through the report of an apartment fire in El Paso, Texas that claimed four lives, one a six month old girl, when Dean whimpers in his sleep. He tries to turn onto his side, winces in his sleep, and wakes, lazily opening an eye, then the other.

"Dad?" he calls out. John doesn't look up from his papers until he remembers those blind eyes. He puts the newspaper down on top of one of the neat stacks near the unused pillow next to him.

John puts a hand on Dean's arm. "Yeah, I'm here. How are you feeling?"

"Thirsty."

There's no joke there, no quip to distract himself or anyone else from how he's truly feeling.

He gives Dean some more water, allowing him to gulp down more than before, watching his adam's apple bobble up and down. It's the only part not marred in some way, the skin clean and peach like the crayon Dean used to color in the members of his broken family. The picture of Dean when he left hours ago doesn't match up with John's memory; dark stubble has filled in Dean's jaw and neck, something he only allows to happen when the time to shave can't be spared.

Dean is greedy, and water sputters from his mouth when his stomach can't take anymore. It leaks down the sides of his face but that doesn't stop him from drinking more.

"Take it easy," John coaxes, lifting the bottle from Dean's lips. Water dribbles out a bit from the downward angle he pulls it up from, splashing over Dean's nose. Instead of commenting on his father's clumsiness, Dean simply smiles and closes his eyes as the water runs with the rest in large drips to the white sheets under him.

"Sorry," Dean apologizes, blinking his eyes open again. The simple motion of open or closed is the only thing that separates asleep from awake, and he's afraid he'll wake up and find this all was a dream, that his father isn't speaking softly and tending to him in a way Dean hasn't felt since he was six years old. Except now his voice is deep and gruff, scratchy like an old record spinning and skipping under the needle of a turntable.

John twists the cap on the water bottle -- Dean can hear the click of plastic against plastic, the swivel as the cap feeds through the grooves. His hearing's improved since that night outside the bar, categorizing the sounds he knows from those he's heard for years yet never paid any attention. Outside, nocturnal birds chirp or move through the trees; he can't tell the difference between the breeze and perhaps a storm brewing, and wonders if, in time, he will.

Maybe he'll turn into the Daredevil from those comics he read as a child, discarded volumes left in motel waiting rooms and roadside diners. A blind man who moved just as well as one who could see, using sound as sonar bouncing off the world around him.

Or maybe not. Perhaps he'll just become another one of those men you see walking down the street, pole extended in front of them, swiveling back and forth in the same motion you use to keep a mixed drink from separating and going sour. Unseen as they walk by, the world wanting nothing to do with the damaged members upon its surface.

"Do you think you could handle more than water?" his father is asking. Dean pulls himself from his thoughts -- there are no visual cues, nothing to tell him there's _more_ than what's in his head -- and turns in the direction of his father's voice.

His neck pops, air released from sore joints by movement. The left side of his face doesn't feel swollen like the right; he works out the kinks in his jaw before settling again.

"Maybe."

"I'm not cleaning anything up, Dean. You'd better be sure."

How can you be sure when your stomach's aching for food, yet hurts from the bit of water settling inside? Dean tightens his expression and nods sharply. "Sure."

"Will you be okay by yourself?"

"What?"

His father doesn't repeat the question, never repeats the question. Dean's reaction isn't one of mis-hearing his father's question -- he can't believe his father, of all people, just asked that; somewhere deep inside, Dean feels something break Estrella would never have been able to reach.

Dean takes a deep breath. He feels his father shift on the bed next to him, the mattress re-expanding as John stands. His feet shuffle on the floor, rubbing against thin, industrial carpet.

John starts to explain. "I'm going to -- "

"Dude, I'm fine," Dean manages. God, does his father think he'll break or something? Has he really done it, gone to that point where he's useless and _babied_? "Seriously." And then he does something stupid, something that his brother would have teased him relentlessly over for the next couple of days had he been there.

He tries to get up.

Under him, the sheets are soaked; the fever has yet to break, and after pushing himself up from the pillow, he feels that familiar rush that loops around his brain and makes it feel like his head's a balloon floating up to the ceiling. He can't see his father's reaction, or the bed under him, so he works off what he can feel. Pushes up with his left hand, scoots back.

"What the hell are you doing?"

John's voice booms in his ear; the rush of blood to Dean's head blocked out his hearing for a moment. There's a hand settling on his shoulder, pushing him down, but damnit if he's going to let it.

"I'm getting up."

"Dean, you need to rest -- "

"And you need to stop treating me like a fucking invalid."

But the heat he intended to have behind those words are lost in a fit of coughing, more hacks that bring up the blood he's been ignoring, those splotches he knows are bright red herrings. Copper fills his nostrils -- that's the only way he knows it isn't just saliva coming up with each shutter of his diaphragm.

"Fine," he father says, hand retreating from Dean's shoulder. "Get up."

Feet brush back on the carpet, breath he didn't realize he could hear growing fainter. His dad's giving him an opening, giving him space to get off the bed and stand on his own feet. If he could escape and slay a fae -- and that was before stitches and bandages and small white pills, he can stand up. He's recovered from worse, bounces back quickly from cuts, bruises, and broken bones without recovery time. Without a hovering parent full of soft tones and gentle hands.

And worry.

That's the worst, Dean reflects as he scoots farther up on the bed, back painfully sliding up the headboard. Worry only distracts, subtracts attention from the task at hand, a shifting focus can cause mistakes.

He's worked all his life to absolve his dad of concern over his sons, taking care of his little brother so his dad wouldn't have to; hiding his own injuries and misery so no one would fret over him when they should be doing something else. To Dean, finding his mother's killer and keeping the remains of his family together and stable came before himself; he's more an ideal than a solid construct, preserving that around him instead of what lay inside.

Pain licks his sides and sets his back aflame, cracked or broken ribs crying out for him to stop this charade. Mind over matter, Dean reminds himself, and slowly swings one leg over the side of the bed, then the other. Breath that came so easily after hours of sleep now comes in short gasps, lungs finding it difficult to expand when his ribs are so sore. He takes a break, letting his head thunk against the headboard, shoulder resting just beneath it.

"I hope this is amusing you," Dean grunts in-between breaths. He can't see his dad, so his voice will have to be his sonar. His comment bounces off John and comes back as a scoff.

"If by you acting like a dumbshit, then yes, this is."

He can almost picture John standing across from him, arms crossed, expression empty as he leans a bit more on one leg than the other. A calculating teacher, Dean and Sam had theorized their father had long ago created some sort of grading rubric like those used by English teachers, and stood by, giving them scores out of five for each item on the list.

Dean rests for another moment, then uses his shoulder to push off the headboard and sways -- back and forth, a drunken sailor or capsizing boat. Steadies himself with a hand to his head, then drops it to the bed and in one heave, launches himself to his feet.

For a second, he's steady. Stands straight up and smirks, even though his left hand is still on the bed for balance. He hopes his dad's looking at him with awe, or at least approval, because his head's about to split and he's finding it harder and harder to breathe.

And harder. Dean tries to suck in some air, but finds it doesn't do him any good. Each inhale sends sparks of pain throughout his body, and avoiding pain is taking precedent over breathing. He tries shallower gasps, each expansion of his lungs pressing against his ribs and aching back; he can't get his lungs full enough, and starts gasping.

"Proud of yourself?" John asks. Dean can't answer, and imagines he looks like a fish, mouth gaping open, cheeks sucking in with each breath.

It reminds him of choking on nothing back in the hands of Estrella, that feeling of _something_ smothering him. The lack of control then caused panic, now, Dean just feels frustrated, _angry_. This was supposed to show his father he could handle it, could laugh through the pain and misery playing as a black and white movie inside his head without ill-effect.

Now, he simply feels like a failure.

There must be something in his stature that changes, because his dad's hands are resting around his chest, gently coaxing him to _sit back down_ and stop being a fucking idiot. Breath still isn't coming, and if Dean could see, he's pretty sure the world would be blending together by now, because he's swimming without water.

_Under the water, feet churning up waves, trying to reach the other side. _

But he never gets there. Just keeps swimming, kicking his feet, trying so hard to keep himself from taking a deep breath; he can't reach the surface, can't reach his father's waiting arms, just _can't_.


	5. Part 1, Chapter 5

Sorry for the long wait! This chapter had to be completely re-written, well, a significant part did -- this is what I get for doing revisions and such; I'm such a perfectionist! Anyway, here's the next chapter for your enjoyment.

Remember, reviews are like candy for the muse. g

* * *

**These Crimes of Illusion**

_Chapter 1.5_

John watches and waits.

Papers take his attention; eyes scan pages, frantic mind searching for clues between the lines and doubting the very existence of substantial evidence. He reads by lamplight even during the day; the heavy curtains are drawn against invading sunlight, casting the room in gloomy, suffocating darkness.

When he has the chance, usually late in the day when his eyes begin to burn, John sits back in his chair and looks in the general direction of his son. The outline never moves; Dean is a constant in his life, in more ways than one, and while John sits there in the dark, he wonders if this is how the world now appears to Dean.

One day passes, and John's focus shifts. Instead of reading over fire department reports, he's pouring over weathered books near the single lamp, reading up on topics only brushed upon in the haste to start hunting; to find whatever it was that invaded their home and lives. Now, he reads slowly, tempted to take notes in his journal on anything he can find about fae and the sicknesses they inflicted upon humans.

He quickly discovers many blights of the past were blamed on fae; anything from strokes to mysterious bruises could be attributed to their influence. It makes his search difficult, but in those lethargic hours of early morning, his eyes stray to the prone figure on the bed and he finds his strength renewed.

Twice, he's sitting there reading when Dean struggles to breathe.

The first time, John's halfway through a chapter on the various protections against fae, mentally translating the Latin of a longer verse, when he hears rough rattling. It takes a moment for him to process what he's hearing, and when he's ruled out the air conditioning unit on high or cars outside, he's at Dean's side without even remembering how he crossed the room.

Dean's body struggles, but only reflexively; his diaphragm jolts up and down as that primal need for oxygen is suddenly threatened, mouth gaping, sucking in what it can. In the darkness, it could be mistaken for hysterical sobbing or hyperventilating, those shuddering breaths.

John knows better.

He slides a hand up under Dean using the gap created by the larger jolts to gain leverage, and pulls him upright. The movement wakes Dean; breathing once regular in its struggle now speeds up as panic sets in. John pulls Dean close, a hand resting on his chest, and catches sight of those eyes so filled with panic and fight as Dean's head lolls against his chest.

"Calm down," John orders. Practically screams for Dean to _take it easy_ and let his lungs work for him. He banks on the last experience, caused by Dean's inability to recognize his own weakness -- never able to see when he should just sit the inning out -- and how his body righted itself after Dean passed out.

But this time, as John should have known by now, was not like the last. Dean's awake, working to calm himself down, eyes the only indicators he's _there_, fighting. His body buckles in John's arms, battling whatever ailment cast upon Dean.

John tries again; he was never the one for helping his sons through sickness -- Dean inherited Mary's gift to bring comfort, to heal with words and soft touches. John is all rough words and even rougher hands, and while he tries his best, Dean continues to struggle until those eyes, so pained, slide closed.

Chaos gives to silence.

Panic rises in John. No longer does Dean move; he sags, deathly still, against John's chest as he did when younger after those long car rides. Of his two sons, Dean's always been the one to find comfort in his family, and while in his later years he's developed an aversion to any sort of familiar touching, often fell asleep while near someone else.

This, however, is not sleep.

He counts the seconds in his head as he lays Dean back upon the bed and pushes against his chest -- that bruised, battered chest -- against broken ribs still healing. He doesn't pull back, though. Let Dean feel sore for a few more days. Let Dean _feel_; John tilts his head back and tries breathing for him.

_Twenty-seven, twenty-eight_. From Caleb, he learned five minutes is all it takes for brain damage, and hell if he'll let this go that long. Breathes again, thumps Dean's chest. Doesn't care if he's doing things in the right order, or even correctly. His mind focuses on the task at hand, at the lack of breath coming from his son. Tries again against blue lips. _Forty-two, forty-three_. Again.

All steel reserve and clinical. Thumps and breathes and tries again and again until the seconds in his head begin to mount into dangerous numbers. For all the horror he's seen in this world, John still believes and prays to God -- prays as he ticks off the seconds and thumps and breaths and --

Deep coughs break through the fractured rhythm John's settled into, jarring him back to reality. He scoops Dean up into his arms and hugs him close, feels the shuddering of his body as he coughs and wheezes through a recovering throat.

"Jesus, boy, don't do that again," John mutters into Dean's hair as he continues to cough and recover and _breathe_.

The second time, Dean fights back. Fights so hard, it never reaches that point of no return, of lazy idleness and near-death.

It frightens John all the same.

* * *

Sunlight reflects off the surface of the water, small waves making it look like giant gems from below. Water sloshes as someone moves by; the waves grow and beams of sunlight shine down through the darker water underneath, intensified by diamonds above.

Everything moves fluidly as people swim -- the water shifts and accommodates everyone easily. There's no resistance from any side; Dean floats just under the surface, staring up at the world distorted by flow. A tree grows and shrinks with the waves, as do the clouds, morphing from one fuzzy animal to another. He's like the water, going with the flow, lying there without a care in the world. Not air, not time; no panic over how long he stays there without opening his mouth and taking a breath.

It's oddly satisfying, this reversal. No longer is he struggling to breath -- he doesn't need to. The world passes by in a shade of light blue, almost transparent, never clear; it's changed, distorted, an illusion he struggles to decode.

So he simply stops trying.

Water sloshes and his body re-discovers buoyancy. It floats to the top, breaking through the surface with the shock of skin hitting cool air; he shivers, but blinks and revels in the clear world awaiting him. Trees have solid shapes like those in children's books, green on top, brown on the bottom, TREE printed in large, black letters.

He's reminded of all those motel pools he snuck out to in the middle of the night, floating there, letting all his soreness ebb away into the water.

The clouds swirl above, then shift into one giant cloud, grey overcast blocking out the sunlight. A chill fills the air. He shivers. The white descends on the world, an ever-darkening mist and_ oh crap_ he remembers where he is and what's going on just as the blackness consumes him --

Awareness comes with a shock. In limbo, Dean can move and see without hindrance, without _pain_. His brain comes to in a symphony of pain, aches and sharp daggers alike splicing through his entire body until it all becomes muddled into one large mass of discontent.

He groans and throws an arm over his eyes, more out of habit than anything else, and waits for things to calm down before doing much else.

Of the last few days, he remembers little. A flash here and there pull him from his dreams of swimming pools and dark chambers, but they're like exposed film -- blank spots of black among color photos. Of the holes in his dreams, he remembers the sensation of drowning, that lack of breath and control that grows into intense panic. His dad's voice is in there somewhere, but sounds like the grown-ups on _Peanuts_; the tone is there, but not the words.

The bed sags under the weight of his dad -- the scent of which isn't the best for Dean's growing sensitivity to smell -- before he says anything.

"What time is it?" Dean asks, rather, grumbles, letting his arm fall next to him on the bed.

"Almost three," John replies promptly.

Something round and cool to the touch is placed against Dean's bottom lip. He figures it's a cup of something -- hopefully coffee -- when his dad uses his other arm to shift Dean up against the headboard.

He's sipped a bit before he realizes it isn't coffee. Or anything resembling it.

"What the hell is this?" he says. His face wrinkles with distaste. "It tastes like grass."

"And you would know," John remarks. "You ate it by the fistful when you were three." He tilts the cup again, but Dean won't have it. His right arm still sits splinted at his side, so he grabs the coffee mug with his left and holds the concoction away from himself.

"Seriously."

"What's the last thing you remember, Dean?"

It's the tone that tips Dean off that something big happened while he was off swimming and walking through deserted hallways as screams echoed around him. His dad has never been a tender person, at least not in the way he remembers from those scattered memories of childhood, but at times, he softens a bit.

Rare occurrences when the great John Winchester admits to being _afraid_.

With this confusion, Dean frowns and scans his memory. "You telling me what a fucking idiot I was for pushing myself. Great parenting, by the way."

"And after that?" John pushes on.

"Nothing. Just," -- he breaks off and shakes his head.

"What?"

"I kept dreaming I was drowning, that's all. Which is odd cause I'm an awesome swimmer."

His dad hmms in that appraising way he has when things don't go as he'd planned.

"What happened?" Dean asks, voice as on edge as his nerves. "Dad."

"I've been doing research. After your brilliant display of stupidity -- "

"Yeah, yeah."

"-- you were out for awhile. Twenty hours. And then you stopped breathing."

The way his father speaks doesn't support the simplicity he's trying to convey. Dean works past that, though, to the heart of the matter -- those blank spots are starting to fill in, if not with movement and color, with sound and fury and panic. Memory crashes into him and he winces physically at the onslaught of pain and chaos, even if they are only echoes.

"Christ, what happened?"

John shifts. "From what I can figure, you got hit by some sort of Faerie Wind. It paralyzes humans through some sort of contact. You remember an icy wind or cold touch of any kind?"

"Yeah," Dean breathes.

"What I can't figure is why you were able to escape and were fine for awhile." John pauses there, thinking. "Drink the tea, Dean."

"Maybe _her_ influence wore off," Dean offers. He sips at the tea, wincing as the hot liquid goes down his throat, and wonders when _that_ happened. It warms him from the inside out in that comforting, whole kind of way even if it _does_ taste like grass.

"What do you mean?"

Dean sips at the tea again. "When I killed her. Maybe her magic wore off." After another sip, he's had enough. "This stuff is awful. Can I get some coffee?"

"Pace yourself. That tea should help counteract the effects of the Wind. Jesus, Dean, do you even know what I had to go through?"

"Yeah. You said I stopped breathing. No biggie. Something like that isn't going to get me."

A hand rests on his broken arm, the touch waking up content nerves running up and down the damaged appendage. "You didn't just stop. You _suffocated_. I had to..."

"Oh, _man_," Dean groans. "Don't say you had to kiss me, dude."

The way John doesn't answer gives him all the information he needs.

* * *

Dean spends the day alternating between sleeping and listening to the television; at first, not seeing the action annoys him, frustrates him into uncoiling and slamming a fist against the headboard. The movement, no matter how small and insignificant Dean may think it is, causes his father to stop whatever he was doing and thrust another cup of the foul-tasting tea into his hand with a warning to take it easy.

He grows used to it, though, and begins filling in the holes in his head. While his eyes are open, he's focusing on the thoughts in his head, giving the pretty sounding girls faces of those he's met on the road. Even dresses them how he'd like, and soon enjoys creating his own visuals for the dialogue he can hear.

Moving is difficult, all his limbs sluggish and reluctant to respond to his commands. His dad tells him it's the after effects of the Wind, that for those twenty hours Dean was completely paralyzed.

"And how'd I get un-paralyzed?" Dean asks in one of those commercial lulls between shows.

"Time," John answers, "and a few other things I found out."

He doesn't say more. Dean snuggles farther into his blankets and listens to the theme song to another show starting.

* * *

Nights are spent under the light of the waxing moon protected by cold iron. Days give the company of daytime television and tea; John spends most of the day and some of the night out at libraries and bookstores, or interviewing people, leaving Dean to tend to himself.

Boredom sets in the second day he's lucid and awake. There's only so much court television one can take in a steady flow in front of them, but they only get five or six channels, and it's better than the alternative. Dean sets to solving cases before the judge, listening to the stories to hear when people are lying, and by the forth day, he's ten for ten and quite proud of himself. Drinks his tea and tries not to sleep; there's something about the feeling of air on his eyes, though he's never felt it before and doubts he'll notice it again when everything returns to normal.

The pair goes through the motions like the wheels of a clock. John returns home, exhausted but hopeful, and returns to the scarred circular table in the corner of the room to go over more notes, more photocopies -- whatever he's brought back from his day out. Dean can hear paper rustle and a pen scratching on paper and once and awhile his father sighs.

On the sixth day, Dean finally tries to speak once again. "What happened to the Banshee?"

"I took care of it," his father briskly answers. "You hungry?"

"Naw," Dean replies. "I'm good."

They return to their respective parts in this play. Each day, Dean feels more and more useless, and on a few occasions, tries to push himself up and out of that God-damned bed to actually _do_ something. Each time, he feels more and more control over his own body, and by the ninth day, he can sit at the table with his dad over take out Chinese.

"What are you working on?" Dean asks over some noodles. They slip and slither off his fork, and he stabs wildly at the world around him until he feels some more grab on.

"Nothing important. How are you feeling?"

Dean learned deflection from his father, that subtle art of changing the subject on a dime and making it sound _natural_. Conversations are rivers to be guided, and he's learned how to change the flow.

"Don't try that crap on me," Dean retorts a bit sternly. "You come in at God knows when, don't even talk to me, and leave all day. What the _hell_ are you working on and why aren't you letting me in on it?"

John sighs and his fork hits his plastic plate -- Dean's started to notice things like that. "It's a lot of research," he says slowly, pained. "A lot of reading."

Dean feels anger swell up inside him. Anger at himself for being _so fucking stupid_ and not escaping sooner, before Estrella marked him for everyone to see. Angry at his father for ditching him every day because he's -- "Is that it? I'm a fucking invalid, so you have no use for me anymore? What, are you keeping me around out of pity, or is it _duty_?"

"Is that what you think?" John says. "That you're useless?"

"Hell, yeah. Actions speak louder than words, and I've been hearing I'm a useless fucking wounded _soldier_ you're about to write off if this 'tea' and shit doesn't work."

"It just takes time -- "

"Time, yeah," Dean scoffs. "I'm still here and I can still _do_ shit if you'd let me. Don't give me that crap that 'it's a lot of reading;' you've been all secretive about what you're working on for weeks. Why the hell do you think I needed to get out of here? You cut me out of everything a long time ago -- hell, you're probably glad you have a reason, now, aren't you?"

Dean's breath is coming fast, inflamed by anger. His chest heaves against still-healing ribs, and he feels small sparks of isolated pain shooting all across his torso, but keeps his face a mask of anger. It distracts him, if only for a little bit, and he holds onto it.

"Thank _God_ Sam left before you could toss him away, too. You'll just push everyone away and sit there and sulk because they left _you_ instead of the other way around."

"That's not fair, Dean."

"Yeah, and neither are you. You treat me like crap, then leave me to sit here. Nothing new; you left me to sit _there_ for _days_!"

They sit in silence. Dean lets his breathing slow, John thinks over his response.

"I found something in Maryland that -- "

"Don't lie to me," Dean cuts in. Those days spent listening to truth and lies comes in handy; his father's voice rises too soon, stumbles over just the right pauses. "You can leave me here all you want and go do your thing, but don't lie to me."

"Dean, I just, I'm trying to do what's best for you. If I tell you what I'm working on, you'll just want to join me, and you _can't_. You can't see yourself, son, but -- "

"I've been hurt worse before, you know that."

"No, you haven't. Jesus, Dean, I had to watch you suffocate. You scream in your sleep, you, God, I..." His dad takes a moment to compose himself. "Forgive an old man for trying to protect his son?" There's a smile in his voice. "You're not useless, Dean. Sometimes, you need to know when to work through it, and when to sit one out."

"Since when has that been your philosophy?"

"Do you really think you can watch my back, Ace?" John asks. "Be able to defend yourself if something comes after you?"

"Hey, I'm getting better at hearing stuff."

"Hearing things and seeing them are two different things."

A hand drops onto Dean's shoulder. "You're not useless. And you're not a soldier, you're my son."

"Hard to know the difference sometimes."

"That's my fault, and I'm sorry. But I wouldn't be able to do anything, any of this, without you."

Dean shrugs off the hand. "God, you're getting all mushy."

"You done yelling?"

"Yes, sir."

And that was day nine.

* * *

Day ten passes without incident. John hovers a bit, remembering Dean's outburst from the day before, reminded of those mistakes he's made in the past and how fathers are _supposed _to act. Brews more of the tea John discovered and practically pours it down Dean's throat. It's helped allow him to move around the room, albeit a bit slowly, but his vision hasn't returned.

They watch a movie together, Dean on one bed, John on the other; one watching, one listening. When Dean laughs, it's shallow and short-lived. He launches into coughing fits twice before John says something, another time before the television's turned off and both turn in.

John finds himself lying awake until two am, when Dean's screams break through the night and the phone rings; it's the front desk, wondering if everything's alright. The horror movie excuse is getting old, but they accept it, again, and he hangs up.

Dean screams again, and thrashes around in his sleep.

John sits on the edge of his bed and watches, head balanced on his hands, struggling between moving over to comfort his son, and leaving him to suffer on his own -- to learn and toughen his skin.

Father versus hunter.

At 2:28am, the father wins out. He caves, just a bit, and moves to sit on the edge of Dean's bed, hand brushing across a sweat-covered forehead, wondering what's going on in Dean's dreams.

When he cries out again, John puts a hand over his mouth. The phone stays silent. John feels a bit of himself break; he could have saved Dean, could have saved them all, if only...

If only, indeed.

* * *

After four attempts, John gives up trying to sleep.

He swings his legs over the side of his bed and settles for a moment, eyes on Dean sleeping on the other bed. He watches for anything out of the ordinary, the memory of coaxing Dean back to life after suffocating still fresh in his mind.

Things, he tells himself, can't remain this way. Hunting is their life now, and while he speaks to the contrary, keeps him occupied. There's a thrill that comes with chasing after a creature not of this world, a boost of adrenalin and ego he's only found in one other place on this Earth, and it's nowhere he'll be returning to any time soon.

Sitting still for so long is testing his patience, and he's finding his tolerance isn't very high. They've been in the same place for too long, settled into a routine, something neither has done since Sam's last year of high school, when they stayed in town just long enough for him to get his diploma.

John stifles a yawn and scrubs his face with his hands. A beard's started to grow after all these sleepless nights and days spent with paper and a blind son; the look's grown on him even if the feeling of it against his hands hasn't. Dean slumbers somewhat peacefully, well enough to shift in his sleep. He twists and turns, winces, and returns to his original position at least twice while John watches.

The tea's been helping, but it isn't enough. That, John knows. He's always been the type of man to handle things on his own -- no need to bring others into his twisted world and risk their lives -- but enough is enough. Just as Dean needs to realize there's a time and place for fight and rest, John realizes he can't go about this one on his own.

He grabs his journal from the table, slips on some shoes and a jacket, and steps outside onto the cement walkway spanning the front of the no-tell motel.

The air is crisp and cool in those long hours before daylight when the world slows just a bit. A car drives by, speeding down the highway, headlights flashing by in a streak of questionable light. Existence can be questioned when the time is right, when the world's illuminated by faint rays. In a few hours, the highway will be full of cars driving here and there, but for now, John's alone.

Scrawled on a page in the back of the journal, past blank pages yet to be filled, sits a list of phone numbers to be called 'in case of emergency.' John's definition of 'emergency' includes being near dead or out of options.

In this case, it's the latter. His finger runs down the list of numbers until it settles on one written in pencil near a rubbing of a gravestone he'd been in the middle of studying when the number's owner happened upon him. The rubbing's only half finished, a few letters spelling out someone's name, and damn if he can't remember whose grave it was.

The phone rings twice before John remembers it's about four in the morning, rings again and someone picks up just before he reaches to hit 'end.'

"Better be damn good," says the voice on the other end.

"You still know that fae doctor up in Whitehall?" John asks.

A rustling at the other end. "Thought you swore you'd never call me."

"Do you or don't you? I don't have time for small talk."

Another car blazes past, headlights blending into the rising sun. John considers hanging up there and then, but remembers _why_ he called in the first place.

"Fine. But he won't come for free. You know how it works."

"Yeah," John says. Unfortunately, he does.

* * *

On day eleven, one of the shows Dean usually watches is a re-run. He groans and shuts the television off, preferring ambient noise to the chattering of lying defendants and infomercials. Cars zoom by on the nearby highway, people chat outside on the balcony, and a few children run, laughing. There's a hum coming from the TV that starts to buzz, then grow louder until he can't take it anymore. Dean stands, teeters awkwardly, and feels around for the TV.

His hands brush against old cups of coffee and tea, past a lamp, until they finally rest on the top of the set. Dean reaches around and yanks on the cord.

The buzz continues.

Dean frowns and pauses. Listens. What he thought was coming from the television is emanating from his left, near the table his dad spends all his time at when in the room and the door.

Contentment is the enemy. It brings false comforts and lax defenses, throwing the world into a pattern of day and night, awake and asleep, lulling one's instincts into a gentle slumber. And so, Dean believes the buzz he hears is something in his environment, something he can find and turn off, relieving himself of it. He wanders around the room he's mapped in his head, listening like it's a game of hotter, colder, trying to sense when he's close to the source.

His hands pass over the surface of the table and the papers left there -- his father would never leave his research in view had Dean the ability to _see_ -- over the back of the chair he sits in when they share meals together, to the windowsill. Runs his hands over there -- the windows are closed, and the sound is a bit softer -- then traces the wall to the door.

All the locks are in place -- John left early, before Dean even awoke -- and he passes from those to the knife he knows has been lodged in the doorjamb since his father carried him into the room eleven days ago. His hand touches the knife.

It's vibrating.

The blade cuts into the wood and metal surrounding the door, bouncing back and forth at such a speed, it could easily be mistaken for an electric buzz.

Dean cups his hand around it, but the blade doesn't stop moving, just cuts into his skin, attempting to open old wounds. Part of him resists, tells him to take his hand away and leave the knife to do whatever it wanted, but another is curious. Why is it vibrating?

Blood leaks down his wrist, and enough is enough. Dean yanks it out of the doorframe before his brain has any time to warn him not to --

-- and that's all it takes.

The door smashes inward, knocking Dean from his feet. He lands haphazardly on the ground, bits of splintered wood showering down around him. A few pieces bounce harmlessly off his body, but that's not the problem. The force of the push jars his ribs and still-healing body, and the air's been knocked out of him.

When he can see what smashed the door, Dean knows he's in trouble.

Wolves, with ears as bright red as a polished cherry, burst through the remains of the door, four of them, with snarling mouths and large claws. Dean jumps up and feels for the doorframe -- why the _fuck_ did he take the knife out? -- only for one of the wolves to jump on him, sending him back to the floor with a painful jolt to the back. A piece of wood from the door digs into tender flesh, and he can't help but grit his teeth and mutter a swear.

"What the hell are you supposed to be?" Dean asks. Moisture drips onto his face, burning with each droplet that _plinks_ onto his skin. It's the only answer he gets, and figures that's enough. Whatever pins him to the ground and drops acid onto his face can't be a friendly.

The others gather around him, one on each side, another above his head. He can't see the world around him, something that seriously hinders his ability to plan an escape. Just the wolves and their red ears and shiny teeth surrounding him in a tempting blackness he'd become friends with over the past eleven days.

There's a paw on each shoulder, but none on his legs. Dean kicks up in one fluid motion, two feet slamming into the wolf's midsection. It doesn't whimper, and Dean gives him props for that, just stumbles back. Dean uses the momentum from the kick to pull himself out of the range of the others. They jump at the same time, practiced moves at the same moment, all moving to converge on his back. He spins around -- ignores the lurch of his stomach -- and feels the table next to him.

A palm lays flat on the surface. It's an old-fashioned stand-off -- them against him, all waiting for the clock to strike twelve and break the tension.

Gravel shifts outside. A foot twisting on the uneven surface. The wolves leap at the sound, launching themselves at him just as Dean takes the table, feeling around the edges, and knocks it in their direction. It hits two straight on; they fall, crushed by the weight of Formica and months of research. The others come at him, teeth bright as they bar them. Dean leaps to the right but miscalculates and hits his hip on the dresser. He winces, but rolls to the side.

The television's up there somewhere. His lungs are on fire now, grasping at straws, but he ignores them -- tells them to _shut up_ -- and pushes at the TV with his good hand. He swings around just in time -- another one of the wolves leaps at him and only gets a head full of glass and wiring.

There's one wolf left, the leader, the one who threw him to the ground and pinned him there. There's no hesitation on either side -- for once, Dean can see _something_, and he revels in the moment before the wolf growls and takes a step forward, just _daring_ Dean to make the first move.

They move at the same time, Dean ducking towards the beds, the wolf over the prone body of a comrade now eating glass on the floor. There's no collision, just the sickening squelch of a knife slipping easily through the chest of the wolf, but not before he gets in a swipe of his own.

The animal collapses against Dean, pushing him against the nightstand. He takes a deep breath, or as deep as he can with aching ribs and a demon wolf pressing him into the nightstand, and hesitates a moment before sliding the knife from under his pillow from the wolf's chest. It slides easily, coated with blood that burns his hand; he pushes with what strength he has left and smiles with satisfaction when the wolf lands to his right with a thud.

Chest heaving, Dean wipes the blood on the nearest thing he can find -- probably his own sheets, but he can't imagine they'll stay much longer after all this -- then his hand, and swears again when the cloth rubs against raw skin.

He feels more blood and rubs desperately to _get it off_ before he realizes it's his own, leaking with some force from a wound where his shoulder meets his neck; a thick, long gash running down a few inches onto his chest. There's no way to know which parts of the sheet are clean and which have the acid blood on them, so he takes a chance -- grabs a chunk in his hand and wrenches it from the bed to press it against his neck.

The temperature drops a few degrees -- or is it just him -- and he forgets he can't see for a second and tries a sweep of the room. A face looms right in front of him, but he can't scoot back fast enough, white teeth snapping at his clothes. The sheet rips as he pushes himself backward, back thudding against the other bed, and he remembers the discarded knife; reaches out wildly in a blind panic, literally, and feels his fingers brush against the blade. But it's too late, the wolf's upon him, and _fuck_, it's not supposed to go this way.

"Dean!"

A shotgun blast echoes through the room, then another, and there's red rain falling everywhere. The wolf lands on the other bed in pieces; the glow slowly fades, then there's nothing to look at but his own hands, and even they're fading from view.

There are hands on his face, his neck, pressing against that gash that's leaving him lightheaded and woozy.

"Damnit, Dean, why did you take the knife out of the door?"

Thank God it's his dad and not some passer-by, because the mess would be hard to explain.

"It was moving," he replies, unable to grasp bigger words. Things are getting a bit fuzzy around the edges, even in that place where dreams are seen -- he re-creates the image of his father kneeling in front of him to keep himself sane. Dean holds up his hand as if to offer up proof: _See? I cut my hand._

"Can you stand? We have to get out of here." There's less of a command and more of a question there, and it's damn good to have his dad back.

* * *

The next hotel is only a few towns over, far enough to keep inquiring police off their trail, but not far enough to keep Dean propped up in the passenger seat for too long.

There's just enough color in his face for John to be sure he's still alive, still fighting against the odds stacking up against him. Leaving him alone was an amateur mistake; a knife of cold iron could stave off Fae blood for only so long, but there are creatures out there far more powerful than metal and muttered words, those that relish at the opportunity to break through barriers. To believe Dean could not only escape, but kill a Fae without attracting negative attention was foolish at best, though John could think of more choice words to describe himself for putting his research ahead of whatever had befallen his son.

"C'mon, Dean," he says, keys dangling from the quiet engine. "Time to get up."

A grumble, then Dean turns to face him, head swinging slowly. He keeps a hand pressed firmly against his neck. There's no vocal answer, just sad resolve painted across pained features, and before John can reply, or even get out of the car, Dean has the passenger door open, feet planted on the weathered motel parking lot.

John doesn't research out to help him -- men need to learn to stand on their own two feet -- instead, he touches his arm, as to say 'stay put, I'll get a room.'

Then he thinks again, remembering the sight of a destroyed door, splintered remains hanging like a monster's teeth. Fool me once...

Dean must have heard his feet crunching over the leftovers of fall; he rubs a hand over his face and mumbles into it.

"Don't start this again," Dean says. "I'll be fine in the car for two minutes."

"There's no telling how they found you in the first place," John reminds him, standing in front of the sun, casting a shadow over Dean.

"Yeah. So lay off for at least an hour."

"We could track this trail in less than that."

Dean looks up, skin as unnaturally light as his eyes. "So why'd you stop?"

"I have to patch you up."

His son snorts and shakes his head.

"This isn't a discussion, it's an order. Until your sight returns, you're not staying alone."

"I fought them pretty damn well on my own."

John lurches forward and gasps Dean's shoulders. This blasé attitude may be a device of his invention, but enough is enough. Disregard for his own life is more acceptable than Dean's, Dean, his son, still a child to protect no matter how old or independent he may become.

"This isn't a broken arm or bruised rubs," he nearly shouts. "You don't walk this off after sleep. Damnit, Dean, you can't even watch your own back. Don't you realize how dangerous that is?" John shakes his head. "Sometimes," he continues, softer, "being a good hunter means knowing when to step back."

"And who's going to watch yours, huh?" Dean snaps back. Even then, his voice is rough around the edges, worn down metal rubbing against metal, scratchy and uneven. It reminds John of Dean's teenage years, when his voice cracked and wavered before it caught up with who Dean was mentally.

It's time for that choice he made while out earlier, when he left the room early because he couldn't stand the sight of Dean, of his failure at protecting his family. Personified there, sleeping soundly after so many nightmares throughout the night, John found it almost unbearable to stay.

A jacket lays discarded in the backseat. John crouches down in front of Dean and reaches past him to grab it, folding the arms inside out before grabbing one of Dean's hands. "You don't have to worry about that, Ace," he says softly, pulling an arm through the jacket. Dean's five years old, again, itching to go play in the snow, jumping with excitement as John tugs on a thick, winter jacket. There's less resistance now, though Dean's frowning a bit.

He doesn't smile nearly as much as he did as a child.

John pulls the jacket around Dean's back, careful to avoid brushing bruises and healing cuts, then pulls the other arm through.

"No way," Dean says, now wearing his blue coat inside out. "You're not going to take a break."

"We have bigger things to hunt, now," John replies, straightening the lapels sticking out from under the coat. "Something is obviously after you."

"You think?" He brushes his father's hands away. "What about the deaths in New York?"

"They can wait. Let the local police investigate it for a bit, rule out the normal theories."

Dean nods, eyelids drooping. His grip on the towel at his neck loosens a bit, slipping down to reveal the top-most sliver of red, swollen skin around the wound. There's no sign of infection -- John notices that first, his mind conditioned to work in a certain order -- he breathes a sigh of relief at that, but not at the slow trickle still leaking through the broken skin.

Time to patch things up, get Dean healthy enough to help him figure out what exactly is going on. There are questions John never intended to ask -- better to let things lie -- and now he knows there's no room for privacy in this line of work. It tugs on John, needing to make Dean relive what happened.

"Stay put," he commands, patting Dean's knee before standing. "I'll get a room."

It's a small concession, but one that keeps them on even ground.

John gives one more glance in Dean's direction, frowns at how small and weak he looks in the passenger seat, and wonders: why so many flashes to Dean's childhood when he _knows_ his son's a adult?


	6. Part 1, Chapter 6

Here it is, the next chapter! This is also the last chapter in Part One. :)

As always, thanks for reading. Reviews keep me warm at night and feed the muse. Notes at the bottom.

* * *

**These Crimes of Illusion**

_Chapter 1.6_

Beige-brown carpeting in alternating seashell patterns covers the floor in stark contrast to red and white wallpaper peeling near the bathroom. Two beds separated by an end table serving as a night stand, a beaten up dresser holding up an ancient television set, and a solitary chair near the window are all the furniture provided, but beggars can't be choosey. Spur of the moment, and this isn't that bad for making a run for it and slipping into the first motel along the highway.

Dean sits on the end of the closest bed, hand still pressed to his neck. His right arm still hangs somewhat awkwardly despite the bone being set and pulled up into a sling; John's sure Dean managed to re-injure it during his fight. Adrenaline can do wonderful things for the human body, wonderful, stupid, inspired things.

Then again, he's seen Dean do the same without the benefit of adrenaline or anything else altering his normal state, for that matter. While Sam inherited John's stubbornness, Dean gained a complete lack of forethought when approaching dangerous situations, taking the age-old saying 'shoot first, ask questions later' to new levels. Sometimes, asking questions never entered the equation.

"How are you doing?" John asks. The chair near the window skids toward the bed with rough, rebellious rubbing against the carpet.

Dean simply glares in his general direction, missing John's location by a few inches that unnerves him. Looking at him but _not_ looking at him. Everything's off just a bit, the world skewed to one side or the other when he looks at Dean and his wandering eyes.

They don't track him as he swings around and sits forward in the chair across from the bed. "That bad, huh?"

"Peachy." Dean sways without an arm to brace himself. John removes the towel and winces -- just with his face, not his voice -- at how much blood has soaked through. The gash itself isn't too bad, but John knows better; even a single cut can spread the lycan gene, and even if they _were_ true wolves, it's better to be safe about such things.

With the towel gone, Dean throws his left arm behind him, palm flat against a repulsively cheerful bedspread, leaning all his weight against it to keep himself from falling over.

John's not used to giving a running commentary while doing anything within the sight of his sons, and feels odd telling Dean what he's doing. "I'm going to wash it out. It doesn't look too bad, but I'll stitch the middle just to be sure."

"Just do it," Dean says, neck and wound bobbing with each word. He knows what his dad means by _washing it out_.

The leverage from the left arm isn't enough to keep Dean upright after the first pass of holy water; he topples over gracelessly, falling to his right, landing on his broken arm. His head lolls off the side of the bed, feet still planted to the ground in front of him, and John hesitates --- fucking _hesitates_ -- before quickly going over the wound a second time.

Satisfied, he dabs off the new blood welling around the edges and places a hand on the side of Dean's face. "Still with me?"

His response, a muttered, "Hell," comes out in a burst of pent-up breath, a single spoken word with the sharpness of a dagger. John repositions him, swinging his feet up onto the bed and pulling his head over so it no longer hangs. Dean's no giant, but the bed is shorter across than up and down, so he ends up curled on himself with the exception of his head, his neck stretched straight.

"Dean, I need you to tell me exactly what happened," John says as amicably as he can, threading the needle already used too much over the last week or two. Dean's body's become a quilt, different pieces stitched together to make one large pattern of peach and black and blue with putrid shades of green and yellow.

"Told you already. Twice," Dean whispers. "Went out, saw a girl, she ended up being a fucking bitch of a fae."

"No," John continues. "The whole story this time, Dean. Don't leave anything out."

"Aww, hell," Dean sighs, shifting his feet slightly. There's a note of sadness there, and fear, and maybe anger at his father for asking him to repeat the story again. But he knows his dad thinks he's lying, thinks he's leaving something out that would explain his Sight or why exactly he stumbled upon a fay in the middle of Ohio or Pennsylvania or wherever they were at the time.

So he launches into the story, words slow like a leaking faucet. Drip from his mouth whenever he gains a spare breath, and even then, John knows he's pushing himself to say it all as fast as he can. Starts at the capture, then the blinding, barrels through to the water John knows was Glamour cast over something far more putrid, to the chains and the beatings and cuts and teasing, right through to drowning in nothingness.

John stops him there. "The Queen? You're sure she mentioned the Queen?"

The break in momentum jars Dean. "Yeah, yeah. Said she talked to her, that she gave me to her, or whatever that means. Crazy fae..."

By complexion alone, John knows Dean should be resting. Hell, should be lying in a hospital bed with new blood being shoved into his veins. Instead, he keeps himself awake by biting his lip over wounds John's just noticed, teeth marks already imprinted upon them. He looks so much like Mary it hurts sometimes, like now, when his expression is so much like one of her own.

John nods and goes back to stitching. Dean continues, losing momentum as he goes over their fight, voice cracking when he describes the room he came up in, face bright as he speaks about killing her. The story trails off; John knows the rest, but still isn't prepared for Dean to mumble on about waiting for his father to come get him.

Explaining the flawed concept of time in the fae realms will never negate the sense of hopelessness Dean felt after two days and no rescue. An intellectual understanding would never overrule the emotional knowledge, and while Dean may comprehend and understand, he'd never forget.

"Hey, kiddo, wait a second," John says. He's finished sewing the last patch on Dean, the gash now a narrow red line, and reaches for the drinks he grabbed from the vending machine in the motel's office. Juice and Gatorade; not his normal fare, but alcohol won't rehydrate his son. Or himself.

Dean only drinks a bit of the apple juice, but it's enough for now. Dean's eyes slide shut, his breathing evens out, and after a moment, his neck curls down to set his chin against his chest. It pulls against the fresh stitches. John stands, stretches the kinks from his back and shoulders, then moves around the bed.

He's used to moving Dean around. As a toddler, Dean often fell asleep in odd positions, hanging off the couch or his bed, curled up wherever he could, slumbering peacefully. How many times had he carried Dean to his room? Placed him gently on those race car sheets?

The bedspread's changed, but not the boy. John finds himself halfway on the bed in his efforts to move Dean into a better, more comfortable position. Twisting up with Dean in his arms until John's against the headboard, Dean leaning against him. Conscious, Dean would fight against such closeness, but in sleep, he acclimates himself to his father's arms, head leaning against John's shoulder, half up, half down.

John Winchester wraps his arms around his eldest as if he were four years old again, reminding him that no matter how horrible the nightmare, his father's there.

--

"There are methods for gaining the Sight, but none mention being born with it. Are you sure you didn't do something to bring this on?"

"Yeah, Dad. I was frolicking in the woods and decided to put some weird flower juice on my eyelids." Dean's given in a bit, and speaks from his propped up position on the bed, pillows stacked up behind his head. After three days in bed, he was still pale, and four days later, still a bit weak. But getting stronger. Sometimes, he takes a walk around the room -- he's growing restless again, excess energy needing to be siphoned off somehow.

But John's allowed him the rest. Even the soldier in him can't deny Dean needs it if they're going to find a way to fix this. Fix everything as best they can.

John pauses, then starts typing on the computer across the room again.

Dean relents. "No, dad. Nothing. Okay?" There _should_ be an explanation, something in those musty books his dad carts around, or on the websites of amateurs and professionals alike, a clue, a riddle, a nursery rhyme of three lines to the tune of _one day aye awok' with 'e sight._

But there's nothing. Not a single record of someone _born_ with the ability, and Dean wracks his brain trying to figure out _how_ this could have happened -- all those nights dancing with creatures, had one of them cast something upon him without either of them noticing? Entirely possible, once you figure their family has never encountered fey before, at least not Sidhe; there _are_ other creatures related through magic, but he's never seen anything odd with them. Never had such double vision, seen such transparency.

His frustration's palpable, contagious; John pounds on the keys a bit harder than usual, stays awake a bit longer at night, has put every protection against fey and monsters up on the walls. Salt near the door has permeated the air, the breeze through the open window tainted. Knife in the door, knife under Dean's pillow.

"There might be a possibility," John says. "It's a long shot, hell, it's one in a million."

"What's that?"

"There are only two ways to gain the Sight," John explains. His voice grows stronger, louder, and the bed gives under his weight. He's been doing this lately, sitting closer to Dean while talking, closing the proximity between them. It's comforting yet unnerving at the same time; Dean doesn't know what to make of it, how to handle it. Everything's been a test or game between them, and Dean never wants to lose.

His dad keeps going despite Dean's mental pause. "Well, a few. But one is to do something in order to gain it. Anointing the eyes, going out at the right time, external methods. The other -- "

"Fay can see other fay. I've read the books, Dad. You're saying -- "

"Unless we've missed something," John interjects.

"We haven't missed anything," comes Dean's response. Hard and sharp like the knife under his pillow. "Not a damn thing."

"You're sure?"

"Positive."

The bed gives again, Dean's legs rising a bit. It's a temporary feeling of weightlessness, floating above the world where nothing can touch him. In the darkness that's become his home, it gives a sense of vertigo, like he's not connected to anything anymore, and at any moment, he'll cease to exist.

He suddenly feels the urge to hear his own voice, just to know he's still there. "That would explain a lot."

"Yes," his dad replies from somewhere off to the right, "it would."

Because the supernatural is always attracted to its own kind, drawn to the raw power each holds no matter how small an amount. Searches it out, going from one to another like a ship sailing close to shore, hoping they'll be able to reach one of the lights and extinguish it. _No matter how small_.

That the only way Dean could possibly have gained this ability without any external help is through heredity.

--

"This is crazy," Dean finally says. He grabs a few fries from the bag at his side and munches down on them. Solid food's been acceptable for a few days, now, and he's eaten more than his share of greasy cheeseburgers and onion rings, French fries and French toast. Anything thick and solid enough to make a cardiology nervous has been on his menu. It builds up strength, he claims, and knows his dad doesn't buy it but says it anyway.

John watches Dean eat, makes sure he's no longer throwing stuff in the trashcan near the door just to make him think everything's okay. Even blind, his son's using his own tactics against him, laid up on the bed and he's protesting silently. Not even a reprieve from hunting gets Dean to admit to being something less than perfect, and John thinks that might be his fault.

There are a lot of things here that are his fault, and he vowed never to make mistakes back on a beach in Southern Asia.

"We need to leave," John announces.

Dean finishes his mouthful of fries and pauses before grabbing some more. "What?"

"Don't make me repeat myself."

"Yes, sir," snaps Dean automatically. His hand stills over the food; he shoves it away in one move, wraps it in the wax-paper wrapping and chucks it in the direction of the garbage. John smiles at the perfect toss, but doesn't let it stay for long. He's been coddling Dean for too long, thinking this was his doing, was his fault.

The second theory's as crazy as Dean keeps saying -- John refuses to admit any relation to a creature, good or bad -- which means Dean _has_ to be lying to protect himself.

Lying will not be tolerated.

Such casual acceptance of a second, and albeit, less acceptable theory is more Dean's style, John has to admit that. Believing the unbelievable is the luxury of living most, if not all of your conscious life in the shadow of bigger, eviler things, though why Sam struggles when he has no memories of a normal life is lost on John.

Nothing to be done about that.

No one in their family is hard of hearing, Dean's question being more of a knee-jerk response than an honest inquiry, but the boy has yet to move other than to throw out his half-eaten meal. Enough of this. Fatherly instincts be damned; there was an honest-to-God creature of the night out there searching for Dean -- searching because Dean not only escaped, but _killed_ his captor. They've been in enough situations like this to know you get out of town before the family seeks revenge; better to fight with knowledge than give it a home advantage.

His sudden reversal could be attributed to his inability to accept a shared lineage with the very things they hunt, or perhaps there's a limit on how long he can be a father before needing to switch back to the impersonal soldier -- memories are easier to ignore if you feel nothing for anyone, anger for some, and sympathy for victims only. Whatever the case, and John isn't one to speculate in his current state, they need to move, and they need to move _now._

"I wasn't joking," he says halfway to the table. Behind him, Dean stiffens, then moves, covers rustling as he struggles out of bed. That small part representing the father gives to hesitation, but it's only in John's mind; he scoops his research into a haphazard pile and moves to grab print-offs and drawings from the walls.

When he turns to deposit the papers in his bag, Dean's halfway to the bathroom, stack of clothes in his hands. He moves like an old man, half-folded at the waist, arms tight to his sides, head bent. There's hesitation in all his movements, a sharp intake of breath with each step. The St. John's Wart tea has helped remove most of the ill effects from the fae's anti-escape spell, but not all; Dean freezes near the door and leans against his father's bed for a moment until it clears and he forges on.

They're on the road twenty minutes later, Dean's hair still wet from his shower. John directs them east, away from the grounds of ancient native spirits, towards the new homes of Gaelic and Irish fae, where he hopes to find an answer.

Dean sits slumped in the passenger seat. Every time his eyes slip closed, he snaps them open. Even unseeing, they stay sharp.

John thinks it Dean's way of proving he's ready for anything.

--

There is a line between baiting and cruelty, and John's just crossed it.

Baiting would be leaving Dean to manage on his own within the controlled confines of a motel room where things could be placed conveniently enough to cause difficulty, but no real struggle. It's a tactic used to force a man to ask for assistance when things become too hard; to force them to accept that fact that things are not 100, to know their limits.

Cruelty, however, is standing outside a no-tell motel in western Pennsylvania while a summer storm rolls in. A light rain sprinkles the ground, pattering on the rough gravel of the parking lot and aluminum of parked cars, making everything slick. John tosses a ball from hand to hand near the trunk of the Impala, Dean halfway out into the lot, standing at ready.

John tosses it between hands a few more times, then pitches it toward Dean. The latter stands still, eyes unfocused on something John can't see --

-- his head twists to the left, his hand snaps out, and the ball is caught securely in his palm.

Dean tosses it back, slightly skewed to the right. The ball bounces off the gravel and rolls under a nearby car.

"You're not focusing," sighs John. Instead of digging for the ball, he pulls another from the trunk and rolls it between his hands.

It's a variation on a game played throughout his sons' childhood, except here, he doesn't need to use a blindfold. Reflexes can be the only thing standing between life and death; John was quick to test that of his two sons, using a simple game of catch as a tool.

The rain is a distraction -- unplanned, but welcomed nonetheless -- drops growing larger as John drills Dean in his new blinded state. Bounce, thwack, bounce, thwack. Dean catches each with the same grace he carries in the daylight, but only on his left side, his right arm still bound and hanging in a make-shift sling from around his neck. It's a weakness that can't be corrected by a few lessons in the parking lot in front of their room, though John's thought about it.

They continue for a half hour. Dean's only faltered a few times, once, slipping on the gravel, the other, going to grab the ball with his right hand without thinking -- he slipped it halfway out of the sling before pain caught up with him and the ball went rolling into the street. For his part, Dean hasn't complained once -- a habit broken only when his brother grew old enough to yearn for a different, normal life -- hasn't said a word over a grunt or muttered swear.

A car speeds by, an older car, classic, and John follows it with his eyes as it passes behind Dean. American, restored -- how he'd love the time to take proper care of his own car, shine it up, re-hab the engine. Tosses the ball between his hands and pitches it toward Dean.

The ball rolls out into the street past the tires of the car.

"Goddamnit, Dad," Dean grunts out. He's bent over and coughing, arms wrapped protectively around his chest; takes a step forward and slips on the wet gravel. He lands in a heap of limbs, sprawling out on the small rocks in a symphony of coughs and grunts of pain; Dean lays there, working to even out his breathing.

Maybe enough is enough. Maybe Dean's telling the truth, no matter how much John _wants_ to believe he isn't. Dean's taken this absurd practice session with little complaint, and the way he's lying on the ground as the storm swells around them clues John into Dean's condition.

"I'm not playing anymore. Fuck, you just hit me in the chest," Dean comments as soon as he's able.

John's taken back by his insubordination; Dean has never, John recollects, given up on a training exercise. But Dean keeps lying. To accept anything else would bring in the possibility of being no better than the things they hunt, and John doesn't know if his conscience can take such a hit.

"We're not finished," John states. "I need to be sure you can watch my back."

"Watch your back? What happened to taking a break? Finding out a way to fix this?"

"There's no time."

Dean pushes himself into a sitting position. "No time? What the hell are you talking about?"

"We've wasted enough time already."

"Let me get this straight," Dean frowns. "First, you say we're going to take a break and figure this all out. Now, you've driven us halfway across the Goddamn country and want me to test my reflexes so I can watch your back?"

Rain falls freely, now, covering both men in a veil of shimmering silver and damning words, drenching their hair and clothes. Dean shivers, quivering with anger -- John knows that look, knows how men can get when they're tired in body and mind. Sheer determination can only go too far, and damnit, he's been blinded by his own self-loathing to see.

He can't, can't accept it. Can't. Won't. This is going too far. Fate can't be _this_ cruel, this _heartless_; pit an ordinary man against the horrors of the world, but don't make him one of them.

If all the things they've faced have gone evil, will Dean?

"Answer me," demands Dean, but he doesn't shout it, or hold any anger. Instead, he pleads. Looks around wildly, tries not to make a sound. He's searching for his father, for some trace he's still standing out there and hasn't stormed away. Hasn't abandoned him to feel his way back to their room and into bed. Dean may be able to catch what John throws without his sight, may be able to move around and load a gun, but blind, he's as helpless as he was at four.

"You did something to cause this," John answers. "Maybe you don't remember, son, but there's no other way."

"You think I'm lying?" Dean laughs hollow and honking; it sounds faked, even staged. One of those over-the-top polite laughs when the joke wasn't funny but the teller's standing there with that expectant look on their face. "Oh, this is rich. When have I ever lied to you?"

John squares his jaw.

"Never. Never in my life. Even when it got me in trouble, or made things worse. So why the hell would you think I'd be lying about _this?_ I'm blind, here, dad. Can't see a thing. Don't you think I'd be fucking serious?"

"Let's go inside," is all John offers as way of temporary reprieve. Things aren't fixed, but he's putting them on hold.

Dean gives a curt nod of the head. "Yes, sir."

--

Dean figures he's used up all his insubordination points for the next several years; in his youth, he'd be cleaning the house or doing extra rounds of training to knock the rebel spirit out of him. A unit can't gel if one of the members disagrees at every turn, and ever since the loss of Sam from their merry band, strict obedience has become more important.

Not that he minds. Dean knows his father knows what he's talking about -- has weighed all the options against years of training and experience. John Winchester has the best interest of his sons at heart, but isn't afraid to push them as far as he can without completely breaking them. And Dean knows this – is aware of all the components that make up his father because he's been there the entire time.

There's nothing wrong with pushing against such boundaries. It's a tactic his dad's used several times, manipulating the situation and conversation to find the root of the problem; many a small town diner proprietors and librarians could testify to his powers of persuasion and investigation.

The only problem with teaching such a technique to his son is the possibility of backfire.

His dad has a reason for moving them -- whatever was after Dean wouldn't be as keen to follow such a long trail, especially if it were connected to the fae he killed. Such beings were hesitant to wander far from their homes or courts for fear of losing the core of their power. And if whatever _was_ chasing Dean _did_ find them, Dean _would_ have to watch his father's back -- would need to perform as best he could in his condition.

He sighs and rubs a hand over his face. There is one thing his dad's right about -- this is his fault. If only he'd stayed inside, ignored his dad's retreating attitude, just watched a movie or something, they'd have finished the job they went to complete in the first place and be somewhere else.

At least he can take a shower on his own, now without wincing as much when moving in and out of the tub; hotels have piss-poor water pressure, so the spray's never bothered him. It's relaxing, though, even if he does flash to the putrid liquid found in the cavernous room he was held in.

The cut in his neck pulsates with each beat of his heart, the limp spray of the shower stinging the tender skin surrounding it. It balances out the pain in his chest from where the ball hit him and knocked him on his ass.

Dean leans against the slick tiled wall, pulling his newest wound from the water. It's cool against his forehead, reminding him of his continuing weakness, and he allows his shoulders to slump just a little bit as he relaxes. Every part of him aches; each sewn slice in his skin burning with precise clarity. Without his sight to distract him, combined with the hissing white noise of the shower, Dean feels each and every after effect of his first encounter with fae.

It's enough to exhaust him, and he gropes around in the shower until he finds the dial and shuts off the water.

Sounds of the outside world crash into him; Dean slouches and pulls himself out of the tub.

He wants to sleep, to escape everything – the pain of his injuries, the attacks, the variable moods of his dad – but that's never been his way. Dean's a man of action as means of distraction, keeping painful memories and the sticky finality of morals in the back of his mind by focusing on hunts. He'd never want to meet his true emotions in a dark ally somewhere, that's for damn sure.

There are too many variables in play, too many 'what if's.' Dean likes tangibility. Certainty. _We're hunting a Black Dog, and this is how you do it._

Damn. That's something Sam's good at; bringing the abstract into solid reality.

Dean gravitates towards the door clad in sweat pants, arm too sore and damaged to pull on the t-shirt his dad set down on the counter for him. He shivers as cool, air conditioned air hits his damp skin, the whoosh of hot steam from the bathroom dissipating as it hits the air of the main room.

The room is eerily silent.

A few cars pass outside. Dean can hear the patter of rain on the windows, hard, fast drops accompanied by booms of thunder. Summer rain. He can still feel the pin-pricks on his skin, the sensation definable, memorable where it wouldn't have been before. Dean's noticing more about the world, listening for small details; not able to rely on his sight is opening the world to him instead of closing it down.

He waits a second, listening to the rain, the air conditioner, the sound of tires on wet pavement, then walks to his bed and falls onto it heavily.

John isn't there.

Which isn't surprising. They both know he's struggling with the possibility of Dean's fae heredity, stressing because it's unknown from which side it came. Dean recognizes this, sees the late-night reflex exercise as John's way of dealing with the harsh reality of his less-than-normal son; how do you switch from persecuting the supernatural to accepting it in your own family?

So Dean cuts him some slack. He flops back on the bed and closes his eyes, listening to the rain and the air and the sound of his own breathing. The air is cool against his warm, fevered skin and he enjoys it until the chill is too strong and he begins to shiver.

When he sits up, his knee bangs against the cheap end table positioned between the two full size beds and the phone clangs against itself. Receiver hitting the base with a ring of a bell.

Later, he'll tell himself he was foolish to even _try_. Later, when he's awake in the middle of the night, pain in his arm too great to allow for sleep, he'll _know_ he's just fooling himself. No one cares for him the way he wants, _needs_, and probably, he'll tell himself with just a hint of jaded sarcasm, never will.

But that's for later. Now, he picks up the phone, feels for the nub over the 5 button, and dials a number he'd never have to program into his phone.

One ring. Footsteps on the wood outside the room.

Two rings. A swish of keys and the click of a bolt being thrown.

Three rings. The creak of old, neglected hinges as the door is opened.

"I've set up a meeting. We leave in the morning."

Four rings. Dean nods and pulls the phone from his ear. He'll need extra sleep and the events from earlier in the evening have sapped him of whatever energy was left over.

"Who are you calling?"

Five rings. The ring jumps; it's gone to voice mail. "No one. What's this meeting about?"

One ring into voice mail, and a tiny, grainy voice starts to speak just as Dean hangs up the phone. _Hey, you've reached Sam –_

"An old contact knows someone who might be able to get us to see the Seelie Queen."

"Sounds good."

Dean goes to bed, the truncated voice mail greeting replaying in his head until he falls asleep to the last part repeating over and over and over and –

– _see? Even he doesn't care. Neither of them do._

– **End Part One – **

**Notes:**

I'm really flattered so many of you are enjoying this fic. It started as a flashback scene in another story I was writing (the Sam discovers Dean's "talent" part you all are waiting for; I have a few pages of it written already) and grew and expanded and now is two parts and over 100 pages.

This one's really a testament to _writing what you like_. I haven't made any compromises -- everything you see is what I want to write, and that so many people are enjoying the ride along with me is just flabbergasting and humbling and so incredible awesome. I hope y'all come back for part two, the "effect" portion where we see what Dean and John go through in order to regain Dean's sight. It's really the meat of the story and more like the show with hunting and research and all that fun stuff.

This fic as you see it each week would not be what it is without koyote19's amazing beta skills. If it weren't for her, there would have been a Duex Ex Machina in the previous chapter, more spelling and word errors, and this one would have made less sense continuity-wise. She catches what I miss and gives the best ConCrit ever.

I also owe a debt of gratitude to Lia and Moveablehistory, both of whom have looked over my outline notes and versions of this fic, taking time out of their own busy schedules to give me advice and brainstorm with me.

And, as always, my muse-in-person, Scout27, who gives me strength, pushes me past writer's block, and kicks my ass every time I say my writing isn't the best and that I should give up.

And, of course, all of you readers. Each reply is a gift, and I cherish each and every one.

Look for the first chapter of Part Two next weekend.

- Kira


	7. Part 2, Chapter 1

Here we go -- Part 2. I hope you all enjoy it -- and please, feed the muse. He hasn't been cooperating for the last few days, and I'm seriously doubting my own abilities. So anything you have to say would be appreciated and helpful!

* * *

**These Crimes of Illusion**  
_Part 2_

_Did you realize, no one can see inside your view,  
Did you realize, for why this sight belongs to you...  
_"Strangers," Portishead

_"You'd do it, wouldn't you?"  
"With infinite regret but negligible hesitation, yes."  
__Paint Your Dragon_, Tom Holt

They meet in Rocky's Mountain Diner, a smallish place in a former train car off one of the major highways connecting Pennsylvania and Virginia. The proprietor, a sickly, slight man (seen pictured above the cash register with a larger, more imposing friend), obviously enjoyed puns, having named his diner such when so close to the Appalachian Mountain Range.

If his name was truly Rocky remained a mystery.

The old train car provided excellent coverage; the original doors had been soldered shut and covered with plywood to blend in, a new one cut into the long side of the car. John chooses a seat farthest from the door, his back to the wall, and waits. Scans his surroundings and eyes the pretty waitress that reminds him of his sister-in-law.

Pretty in a plain, middle-American way. Unremarkable brown hair with matching eyes, a small, nicely shaped nose. Dean would have liked her if he could see her, though the meal and meeting would then be constantly interrupted by his attempts to flirt with her.

Casey -- that is his sister-in-law's name. The last time he'd seen her, or his brother, for that matter, had been three weeks after Mary's death, when obsession clouded John's mind and made the decision to hunt for him. They left apprehensively, wondering if John could take care of his infant son; their eyes betrayed them, and John told them exactly where they could shove their concerns.

For a man who valued family so highly, he sure did ignore his own.

"They got eggs, right?" asks Dean from across the table. His menu lays on the table where the waitress set it, Dean's fingers playing with the edge, sliding it back and forth in a small arch.

_Scrip. Scrape._ John reads over his own menu, a cursory look exchanged between the laminated sheet and the diner.

"What kind of diner wouldn't have eggs, Dean?" John replies calmly. Still timid around Dean after all he's thought, even if his thinking hasn't changed.

Across from him, Dean shrugs. "Weird ones? Sounds crowded to me, though." Pauses, thoughtful. John smiles at his son's assessment. "Gotta have good food."

"Or it could be this is the only place for a few miles."

"Even better. People don't travel for bad eggs."

John nods and checks the clock above the kitchen.

"How late is this guy?" Dean says. _Scrip. Scrape. Scrip._ He's still pushing the menu back and forth, finger on the corner. The laminate's peeling under his finger, and he picks at it after a moment.

"Ten minutes, thirty seconds."

"Could be his watch is slow. Where the hell's the waitress, anyway? I'm starving."

A woman in the booth next to them turns at the swear, a frown plastered across her features. Outside the larger cities, people aren't accustomed to swears in public places, disapproving of those who use such vulgarity when children are around. John counted three kids under the age of ten when walking in, all of them out of earshot.

He warns Dean about his language just the same.

"God da - rn people," Dean mutters. Starts playing with the menu again. "Why're they so darn sensitive? Look at me," -- Dean points both thumbs inward at himself -- "I grew up around swears and turned out just fine."

They share a laugh at John's obvious -- and handed down -- military vocabulary when the bells above the door jingle with the arrival of a new customer. Both snap to attention, John scanning the man with an appraising eye, Dean waiting for something to indicate his dad's assessment.

Thick steps march up to their table. "You must be John."

"Depends."

"Martin said you were ex-military on the phone. You guys stick out in a crowd. Makes me wonder how good all that training is if you can't even blend in around civilians."

Dean can't see the speaker, but knows he doesn't like him. If there's one way you _don't_ start a conversation with a Marine, it's to insult his abilities in the field -- whether it's in the middle of a hot zone or the eastern United States; doesn't matter.

But John takes it in stride, glances at his son, and remembers why they're having this meeting in the first place. The depths he's gone to in order to even _find_ this man aren't exactly legal, nor comfortable; can't put all that work to waste just because this man doesn't know good conversation.

"This is my son, Dean. Hungry?"

There's a Chinese fire drill; John stands and offers his seat to the visitor and scoots into the booth next to Dean. He doesn't like giving up his position -- next to Dean, he can't see anything but a 50's style painting advertising motor oil -- but figures it's easier than telling Dean, out loud, to move so neither had to sit next to the stranger.

"Sure am." Raises a hand and waves over the pretty Casey-looking waitress.

She's peppy and bouncy, just like so many other waitresses in so many nameless towns. "What'll you have?"

There's got to be something in her voice that gives her away, because as soon as she speaks, Dean turns up to where he thinks she's standing and gives a wide smile.

"What's good here?" he asks.

She gives a sour face -- realizes he can't see her -- and shifts, uneasy, like most, with blind people. Her compensation, a fake, but sparkling smile, is a little much -- he can't see her, and thus, doesn't know she's giving pity.

"Anything, darlin'," she sings. "But we do have good bacon and eggs."

"Sounds good to me."

If there's any indication John's doing the right thing, it's this. The awkward tension in the air, the pity in the waitresses' eyes, Dean's poor attempt at flirting. Things such as this should go smoothly; Dean has good skills at sweet-talking girls and usually never fails, even on his worst days.

But the way she _looks_ at him. God. If _ever_ there was a reason...

Orders are given; the waitress gives one last fleeting look in Dean's direction, and runs off to put their orders in. If John had been sitting on the other side of the table, he would have seen her sigh and speak with the other waitresses, motioning towards Dean with that frown.

"Something like this isn't cheap, and isn't easy -- "

"You haven't given your name," interjects Dean. Just because he can't see doesn't mean he can't read the man. "Puts us at a slight disadvantage."

"Martin didn't say anything about sharing names," the man intones. Defiant and dodgy -- two traits that mark the less favorable in their shadow profession. Considering what he's been contacted to do explains his reluctance, but he wears the word 'rebel' across his forehead in a light even Dean can make out.

He's toying with the Winchester men for a bit of sport.

"Consider it a show of good faith," John tries.

The man laughs and sips his coffee casually. "Good faith? My friend, there is nothing good or faithful about what you want to do. Contacting the Queen isn't something you just do casually. There's gamblin' involved. Shady stuff. You sure you want to dirty your hands with this stuff?"

"Dirty our hands? What do we look like, girl scouts?" shoots Dean. "How do you think I got into this situation? By handing out cookies to the wrong house?"

The man holds up his hands, though Dean can't see the peace offer. "Hey, hey. Calm down there, boy. Name's Eric Stallis, okay? That change anything?"

"Nothing unless you do something," John warns. Already, he's feeling a bit uneasy about the transaction, and if it weren't for the waitress plopping their plates of eggs and bacon down on the table, he would have said something to that effect.

Instead, he watches Dean attempt to dig in; he feels about the plate with his fork, mapping out the contents in his mind as if they were exploring the terrain of a mountain pass or creature's habitat. John finds it endearing, almost, but sad at the same time. He takes a few bites of his own breakfast out of courtesy more than hunger, and leaves Dean to eat.

"You said this isn't going to be cheap or easy. Martin didn't say anything about payment."

Stallis speaks around a mouthful of toast. "Oh, it ain't that kind of payment, not the human kind. You lose, and you're paying with something more."

Something John knows well. His research showed the most common punishment for a human possessing the Sight, either through eye anointment or, in Dean's case, birth, was blindness. Only on a few occasions did people get away, and only through the kindness of the fae they encountered.

"We understand that," John admits. "But we don't intend to lose."

"Man, Martin was _right_ about you boys. Sure play tough, don't you? All or nothing. This isn't a game, Mr. Marine. Not something you can go into with guns blazing. You've got to _think_ in order to get what you want from fae." Stallis pulls a scrap of paper from his pocket and slides it across the table. It scratches against the Formica tabletop, pulling Dean's attention from his breakfast. Blind eyes follow it eerily across the table.

"Here's what I've got. You find this guy, you play a game of chess. If you win, you'll be able to speak to the Queen."

"And if we don't?" Dean asks.

"Well, you don't want to lose, let's just say that. Losing's, well, that's when you want to pull out your guns and find some iron."

--

"A chess game?" Dean slides into the passenger seat of the Impala and begins digging through his box of cassette tapes. Digs through and finds a random tape. It's nothing too loud, and John simply turns down the volume instead of ejecting it. "When was the last time you played chess?"

"It's been awhile."

"Yeah. Oh, we're going to win this one." Dean rolls his eyes. "Why couldn't they just challenge us to a duel or something?"

"Despite their reputation," John says, pulling out of the diner's parking lot, "they enjoy tricking humans. We need to be prepared for the chance this isn't a normal chess game."

"Isn't normal? Dad, we're not chess people." Dean sighs and leans back in his seat. "Damnit, Sam."

They'd grown too interdependent. Too reliant on each others' strengths to get them through tough situations. John and Dean, they were no match for a fae challenging them to a chess game, but Sam; his departure left more holes than emotional ones, and filling those in was hard to do.

Dean grumbles a bit more. John lets him, more tolerant of Dean's random sequeways and bouts of anger now that he can see them in himself.

Can't blame a child for taking after the parent; the catch phrase 'do what I say, not what I do' never took on with either of his boys.

"What did the paper say?" asks Dean ten miles out on the way to Virginia. John almost pulls it from his pocket to toss at Dean before remembering the waitress' face.

"Tomorrow at dusk. Chilton Woods."

"Long drive?" He'd take out the map if he could. Dean reaches for it, then flops back in his seat and swears. Useless. No matter how much his dad tests his reflexes or tells him to watch his back, Dean is never going to be at the top of his game until this is finished.

He wonders if it _can_ be finished.

"I don't need you feeling sorry for yourself, Ace," chides John from the wheel. "This isn't the time to be thinking about what you can't do. We're going to fix this, then you can get all mad. But not now. You got it?"

"Yes, sir."

It's half-hearted and muttered to the windshield, but both get the message.

--

The drive through southern Pennsylvania blends into northern Virginia with nothing more than a 'Thank You For Visiting...' sign followed by a green highway marker on the state line. Dean sees neither, just hears the wind rushing through the open windows, and wind sounds the same no matter where you are. State lines are arbitrary, anyway; trees and forests and monsters don't look at maps when settling in a new country.

These followed the settlers to the new world and stayed. The Midwest is crawling with creatures brave enough to wander from the east coast; many decided the land there was good, the fields a change of pace. Not many on the west coast or Florida -- something Dean believes is a real bummer; he could use the vacation time.

Halfway through, the wind stops. Dean frowns, knowing something should be brushing across his face from the cracked window, but doesn't feel a thing. He reaches up to make sure he's not imagining things, traces the beveled edge of the window's open edge.

"Do you feel that?" he asks. His father's been quiet the last twenty miles or so, hand tapping softly on the steering wheel along to whatever music comes through on the radio.

"What's that?" says his dad.

Dean taps on the window. "That. There's nothing. I didn't pay that much attention in high school, but doesn't physics say something about bodies in motion?"

"Yes."

"Then why isn't there a breeze through the window?"

A pause. Rarely is his father at a loss for words.

"Dad?"

His reply is his dad gunning the engine. "It's a vacuum."

"Wait, what?"

"There's still a breeze, Dean. You just can't feel it."

_Oh._

"There are a lot of creatures in these forests," his dad explains. "They give off their own kind of signature to let others know they're here. I've consulted with a few psychics in this area; EMF meters are useless."

"Thanks for the history lesson, dad," Dean scoffs. "But that doesn't explain the vacuum."

"Maybe that's your way of receiving their signal," John tries. His voice is tight; Dean knows something's lurking under the surface, influencing his dad's sudden change. He has a pretty good idea what it is, and if Dean weren't thinking the same thing, he'd be worried -- or wouldn't be. It's a philosophical argument, and despite reading the books and being quizzed, Dean's isn't too keen on thinking them through.

He knows he's become something unnatural. Estrella -- he shudders to think her name -- told him as much. Taunted him with the knowledge that he had become a freak among humans. Something outside the boundaries of normal -- of faerie law -- no one knew how to deal with.

And if he broke such boundaries already, who was to say he wouldn't cross more?

Honestly, that frightened him more than anything; than permanent blindness or unseen injuries left by Estrella he had yet to find. Of all happening around him, Dean fears becoming the very thing he's hunted, or helped hunt, since he was too young to remember. Who knew what would happen in the future? Were the lines blurred or drawn with reality so as he could not see them?

"As soon as we finish this," Dean states, voice cutting through the car with a hard edge, "I won't be receiving anything but a good drink and maybe some favorable attention."

"Don't be so quick to dismiss this, Dean."

The radio fizzes in and out; they're passing out of range of the station John's been listening to for the last hour. Static fills the car, dancing specs of confusion spreading white noise between father and son.

"Are you crazy? There's nothing good that can come out of this. No. I'll dismiss it as fast as quickly as I want." Crosses his arms, huffs, and Dean's not moving from his decision. Why would he want a constant and unseen reminder of all this? Scars, fine. Scars can be covered by clothes or ignored. But this -- Dean's had plenty of experience ignoring feelings and emotions, but this is different. Deeper.

"We could use it to our advantage."

"Yeah. Go ahead. Use _me_ to your advantage. We've been hunting this long without freak Dean, we can keep doing it."

Dean reaches over and closes his window, the whistling he knows should be accompanied by wind extinguished. He hears it from his dad's side of the car, but not feeling it from over there doesn't freak him out as much. This, _hell_, this is freaking the _shit_ out of him.

His dad turns off the hissing radio. "Never dismiss an asset that can be used in the field. If you can sense fields, you may be able to sense if something's getting too close."

"Sure, okay."

They stay silent. Sunset casts the mountains in an amber glow that sparkles like stars at midnight, bright gold spots dancing in darkness. Dean's used to silver specks when looking up at night, breath coming out in puffs in the cold air while out on in a hunt; the gold is so beautiful, it captivates his full attention until the sun's finally set. For a few minutes, the two overlap, and Dean feels a bit sentimental when gold and silver blend into a blanket of midnight black.

Out here, away from even the smallest town, the stars seem brighter. A few lights dot the parking lot of a trucker's stop, but they're old, yellowed lights that don't offer up much competition against the moon.

Semis sit in the lot, a few with sleepers, a few empty. There's a diner with a second floor boasting empty rooms with low nightly rates. Inside is packed full of people sipping coffee and chewing on slices of pie, a few have their heads down on the table and are sleeping for a lot cheaper than the room rates upstairs.

John believes that's the way to go; medicine and supplies for Dean has drained their cash flow, and a truck stop in northern Virginia isn't one to present many opportunities for their methods of making extra cash. Grab a warm meal and slouch down in the red plastic booth for a few hours before hitting the road.

Chilton Woods isn't much farther, maybe five hours or so, but John isn't a man to walk into a situation without as much information as possible -- he plans on walking the woods for at least three hours before dusk. Map out the terrain, find possible hiding places, areas for ambushes. See what Dean can sense, if anything.

At the thought of Dean, John turns to the passenger seat. His son's watching the mountains out the window, eyes catching the yellow lights of the parking lot as John slides the Impala into a space.

"See anything out there?" he asks.

Dean almost jumps -- almost; he gives surprise a purpose. "The mountains. They have stars. Or something. It's nice to see something." He shrugs. "You find a motel out here?"

"Truck stop."

"Good. I'm hungry."

The door creaks as Dean gets out. He stretches tall outside and takes in some of the cool mountain air. For a moment, he looks normal, like nothing's wrong -- this is just another hunt. But then Dean winces and folds up again, grimacing against a smile.

--

"Was there a specific place mentioned on that note? Cause this place is over 300 acres, right?" Dean swats at a tree branch in front of him with the stick he's picked up to 'feel things out;' the last thing he wants is a branch whacking him in the face while running from unseen creatures after losing a chess game.

"Roughly. The family donated their estate to the forest service after the last descendant the family died," John explains. He pushes a branch from in front of Dean, waits for him to step through, and follows. "I don't have any hard evidence, but I believe the family allowed fae to inhabit the grounds before this became a public park."

"So, what? Family dies, no one knows, and the will leaves it to Virginia? Did they miss the footnote about magical creatures living here?"

John nods, then remembers Dean only sees gold star-lights in the distance, not him. "Perhaps it was a family secret."

"Oh, those always go over _really_ well at funerals." Dean rolls his eyes, twin orbs of white-blue. "Unless you're immortal, it's not a good idea to leave things to people who are idiots."

"Ignorant to family history, Dean. There's a difference."

They're not direct people, him and Dean, and when something truthful comes out, it can slip under the radar unnoticed. John leans on that, hopes Dean doesn't wonder if perhaps he doesn't know everything about their family history, doesn't start asking more questions.

"Yeah, whatever," Dean says. He swats at the air with the stick. "Should have at least kept it private."

"It was donated to the state. By law, it has to be open to the public."

Dean throws his arms up in defeat, the stick flying into the upper branch of a nearby tree. "Then I guess hikers are just fucked if they wander off the trail."

"There are signs warning them not to," John informs him. They've moved off into a clearing, a simple gap between older trees, but Dean's still waving his stick around. "Very sternly."

"From my experience, people _always_ listen to those signs. For a real fear of death." Dean whirls to face John, stopping just short of some vegetation. "If people listened when told something, we'd be out of a job."

But John's not listening. His eyes wander to the small object near Dean's left heel, small, grey --

"Don't move."

"Huh?"

John walks around Dean and to the left. Mushrooms grow in an oblong circle in the middle of the clearing. A faerie circle.

"Do you sense anything? See anything?"

"No."

"Step forward, walk to your left. Thirty degrees."

Dean moves with the precision John calls for, his measurement almost perfect as he blindly rounds the ring. "This isn't fair. I can't see whatever you're freaking about."

"It's a faerie ring."

"Yeah, well, it's dormant or else I'd be seeing a fireworks display."

They leave the ring behind, though John makes a note to destroy it later if they have the time, even if it would anger whatever creatures are watching them. But time would mean winning the chess game, and for however long it took to find the Queen, they'd be under her protection.

Dusk comes too quickly. When it does, golds and reds climbing over the tops of evergreens and oaks, John hastens his pace. There's still so much to map out, even if he doesn't know where the meeting's to take place; he feels ill-prepared. The last time he even attempted chess seriously was high school.

Dean walks beside him, now, the stick abandoned a few clearings ago. Whatever inhabits this forest comes out in spades at night, creating their own twilight Dean clues in on and uses to navigate.

A hush fills the woods, the wind singing while it whistles through the forest, catching leaves here and there that flutter to the ground like falling ballerinas. A chill descends with the absence of the sun, the branches boney hands reaching towards the Earth. John's momentary reminded of the Spirit of the Birch, that screaming face seen in the twisted white bark, ready to touch the head of a moral and send them into insanity.

Or death, if the hand reached the heart.

Just another one of the myths John committed to memory should they leap from the pages and prove themselves real.

The story warns him away from the reaching branches, huddling him and Dean close to the center of the forest, squeezed together shoulder to shoulder. John takes out a flashlight a few minutes past dark, the light sweeping the path in front of them. Dean follows the path with conviction -- without the aide of the flashlight, head high.

"So, no meeting place, huh?" he asks after a few more minutes. "Great. This place is teeming with things."

"Things?"

Dean shrugs. "You know," -- he waves his hands about him -- "things. Creatures. Lights. They're everywhere." He shudders when he says this. Uncomfortable.

An emotion they both share. Whatever is out there is watching them, wondering why they wandered from the path when so many others have listened to the signs and stayed where it's safe.

The wind gusts behind them. Both turn, concerned; the importance of wind in mythology has never been understated, and they know it. John turns in time with Dean, eyes lingering on his son for just a moment longer than normal, trying to read if anything was amiss, then turned completely --

-- to find the forest had disappeared.

Beside him, Dean swears. Where trees once stood heavy with summer leaves and fruit, they now stand barren, arms reaching for a stormy sky. The ground has lost its lush green grass in turn for brown dirt.

But that's not why Dean swore.

Standing not two feet from them is a man. At least it's shaped like a man, though the face is smooth white porcelain, animated where a sculptor could only capture one expression. The face blends into a white cape; it swishes over his head and down his back, wraps his arms and legs to give the impression of a child playing a ghost with a white sheet thrown over their head.

The man's hands are bones, like the branches of a Birch, and John thinks remembering that particular story earlier couldn't have been a coincidence.

There's no wind here. No breath from the man-creature before them. Stillness and silence, a complete absence of sound.

"Shit," Dean swears again. "Fucking faerie realm."

The man-creature motions with an arm draped in white behind him. A table topped with a chess board and pieces is revealed as he turns to the side, white bark exposed along the bench seats and tabletop. Not a word is exchanged, but the intent is clear:

_Shall we play?_


	8. Part 2, Chapter 2

Here ya go! The next chapter, and a favorite of mine -- then again, I love this entire fic, so they're all favorites! Sorry about it being late -- work has been crazy, and I got attacked by a migraine this weekend, so wasn't able to go over my beta's notes until last night. Many thanks to Koyote19 for the beta, as always, and Scout27 for her unwavering support.

If you're enjoying this story, let me know. You don't have to be elegant or loquacious -- just a little note's fine! I use them to keep me from running from the office shrieking -- can we reboot today?

* * *

**These Crimes of Illusion  
**_Chapter 2.2_

Black pieces stick out against the white of the man's robe.

They sit across from him, shoulder to shoulder, Dean's good arm pressed against John, stuck between him and his dad. It's uncomfortable, being so close when tensions are running high. Dean hasn't forgotten his dad's impromptu late-night training session and the intent behind it; just because he's blind doesn't mean he can't see what his dad's struggling with -- hell, he's having problems accepting things as well. He feels slighted, punished for something he can't control, has no explanation for -- thinking about it only feeds his anger, but the source is warm against his side and he can't escape it.

"We go first," announces Dean solemnly, attention turned to the board as distraction. The pieces glow their colors atop the board, just as the man and the forest do. Here, he can see clearly, even his father sitting next to him. John looks tired, worn down by duty to Dean, and the latter feels guilty for putting his dad through all this. Guilty and angry, so he returns his eyes to the board.

For lack of anything else, he slides a pawn from in front of a knight two spaces.

"So," he starts conversationally, hand slowly rising from the piece, "you're the official chess guy or something?"

The man slides forward a pawn one space. "You could say that." His voice rumbles the clouds above.

John shifts on the bench and reaches to touch a pawn over Dean's arm, sliding it forward without a word. Dean studies the board. Two moves in and he has to think six past that. He's a bit rusty, but manages to calculate four during his turn.

"They just send you out when mortals want to see this queen?" he asks of the man, ignoring his dad.

Another move. "I play whoever comes my way."

Dean nods and hums through his lips, taps a finger against his chin. He reaches out to move the knight -- forward two, over one, right behind the pawn John moved -- and collides with his hand over the board.

"Where'd you learn to play chess?" his dad drawls from beside him. His tone's more accusing than anything, demanding an answer to assert Dean's right to play on their behalf. Their hands sit above the board, neither moving until one relents.

"Remember that summer Sam couldn't talk about anything else?" Dean says coolly. "Who do you think he played against?"

"He was that demanding, huh?"

Sam, as always, defuses the situation, if only for the duration of the game. "When isn't he?"

"Don't break the pattern, it's your turn," speaks the man.

Something shifts, just a bit. John removes his hand and sits back, as relaxed as a military man can be when his senses are alert. Truth with proof is different than Dean's continuing stance that he has done nothing to bring the Sight on artificially. He remembers that summer, when Sam carried a chess board under one arm or tucked into his backpack, the green cardboard corner of the board's underbelly sticking out past the zipper. He was intolerable until Dean started challenging him to games. The requests stopped, and John was almost hurt his son no longer begged for his attention.

He lets Dean focus on the game, lets him lean forward but keeps contact.

The forest shifts and changes as the game progresses. Trees skitter away, sliding from view behind one another, the forest denser yet empty. Clouds crack overhead, crashing together each time the cloaked man speaks.

It's all surreal. The game has become much more than a chess match between opponents; it is a clash of wills -- win versus lose, power against request.

"What kind of place is this?" asks Dean, sliding a piece across the board. Here, the magic is different; no conflicting images hitting against each other.

"Other than a place of Faerie?" The cloaked man uses the term in the traditional sense. A place of magic rather than that of the fae folk most picture. Once, it referred to all those supernatural forces roaming the Earth, when people spoke of them, gave them life through stories.

"Yeah. Other than that," Dean bites out, leaving off the obviously at the end of the retort.

"It exists next to the forest instead of within it."

Dean frowns, and it's not because of the game. It's progressing much like those he played against Sam on those nights they slept without their father under the same roof. Thunder and lightning never frightened them, but being alone did. A bit of pride swells inside Dean, that maybe, just maybe, he'll win this one.

"Instead of on top of it?" Because that's his understanding of Glamour; layers on top of layers.

"Is that how you see it?"

"Yeah," Dean admits. "Like two pictures on top of each other."

"Most Glamour relies on a basis of human reality."

They move their pieces throughout the conversation, eyes never leaving the board. Their voices bounce from it, snake between the pieces that represent them in this place. John sits to the side, an outsider in a game that has as much impact on his life as Dean's.

He leans forward and watches his son's hands move the pieces. "And this place doesn't," John remarks, then adds: "You're an angel."

"An angel?" Dean asks, turning to face his father. For the first time in a week, he can see; focuses his eyes and gives a half-smile. He wonders if his eyes have turned back to their natural color, or if the work of Estrella stretches this far.

"I've seen one before, before you were born. Didn't know it at the time."

"We're the Fallen," the cloaked angel states.

"Like the sidhe," John continues. It depended on which myth you believed, really. "Why would they send you to play us?"

"I am an angel of chance, of game. I enjoy playing."

"So do others."

"But I am here. Every night, I seek a worthy opponent."

"We're hardly worthy," John half-laughs. "Neither of us are chess players."

"This one is," the Fallen motions to Dean. "He hides much."

"He is waiting for you to take your damn turn," Dean grumbles.

John presses on. There's something he's missing. "You never said where this was."

"Beside, around, under, above. We are neither here nor there. Nothing is as important as the game. The game exists for itself."

Dean pauses, hand still on the top of a knight's head. "I'm getting the feeling this is no ordinary game. No pressure or anything, right?" Stallis' warning rang in his head -- _Losing, well, that's when you want to pull out your guns._

Sacrifice one thing to save you from another.

John lays a hand on Dean's shoulder, the touch not dismissed as usual. "Just focus on the game."

"Easy for you to say; you're not playing." Dean plucks his hand from the knight and turns to face John. "When did that happen?"

"It is not wise to take your eyes from the board," warns the Fallen.

Sweeping his eyes across the board, Dean finds the Fallen's move and smirks -- he predicted it three moves ago -- then catches himself. Can this fallen angel read minds? Is cheating in a game of fate allowed? Is it like poker or pool; the slightest show of your cards a death wish if you're playing seasoned veterans?

Sammy never took his concentration from the board. Loss after loss caused that, Dean's smirks and whoops of victory par for the course and not something the competitive kid wanted to deal with. 'Just face it,' Dean had told him, 'you've got a head for reading, not strategy.'

And then would proceed to rub Sam's face in the loss.

How unfair, Dean thinks, that the first time he can see his dad is the time when he can't look at him?

The game continues. John can't tell if it's night or day; the light here spilling over from some unseen force doesn't change or waver, just exists for purpose of the game. Dean fell silent a half hour ago, as did the Fallen, both moving their pieces around in a delicate dance.

He remembers the basics from high school, though he rarely played unless asked to by relatives during holiday get-togethers. A knight moves up two, over one. A queen can move in any direction. Pawns can only capture on the diagonal. But basics can only take you so far; John begins to think in terms of tactics, moves on a battlefield.

Assembled on each side of the board are the captured pieces, standing together for protection though John knows they're just carved ivory or jade or something else and don't have feelings. He can't help feeling for them, though, sitting there out of play. They remind him of Dean the last week or so, sitting off to the side, taken out of the game by someone else's move.

Dean slides a piece closer to the Fallen's king.

"So," John clears his throat. "How's it going?"

"Fine, okay, spectacular."

"Your son is a fine contender," the Fallen remarks, taking his own turn.

Dean rolls his eyes. "Yeah, whatever."

"You're doing fine, son. Just keep concentrating on the game." Throws his support behind Dean, wonders if he should give his advice, help Dean chose where to move. John's not a man to sit idly by on the sidelines, a trait he's obviously passed onto his son, but takes the forced position with grace.

The idea of a Fallen being sent to play against them bothers him, and if the damned creature didn't speak in riddles, he'd have a straight answer now. Fae are notorious for loving games of chance or intelligence, especially when playing against mortals; those willing to gamble against the Winchesters wouldn't be hard to find.

And yet...

"How many have you played?" John tries. "Mortals, that is."

"A few. A hundred. I've lost count."

"A creature like you, losing count. I can't imagine that happens very often."

"The exact number is not important."

"I'm sure it is, at least to you."

"Angels, even Fallen, do not have pride as you mortals do. Or Fae."

"If ever there were people with too much pride," Dean mutters under his breath. They've been playing for over an hour now, perhaps two, and even in this place of magic, Dean's not at his best. Sweat glistens on his face, hands tremble when he pulls them off the pieces. He flattens them against his jeans and rubs them dry.

"You okay?" John asks.

"Wonderful," is Dean's clipped reply. He makes a circle with his head, cracking his neck, and absently rubs the base with his free left hand. "Just, you know, mentally tapped from this geek game."

"If you dislike it so," the Fallen inquires, "how have you developed such skills?"

"My brother's a geek." Dean shrugs and fails to hide the wince from John.

John frowns. "You want to take a break there, Dean?"

"There are no breaks. The game continues until it is finished," speaks the Fallen.

"And when will that be?"

"Four moves," Dean sighs, "maybe five."

"You're sure about that?"

"Unless this angel does something completely wacky, yeah."

"If you see that, you've already won." The Fallen fingers his own king's piece. "Would you like to play it out, or shall I concede?"

Dean just leans back on the bench and grins. A wide, proud, happy grin that almost splits his face in two. "Oh, you can concede all right."

"As soon as you leave this place, your sight will not return. It is not the prize for completing this game. Only the Queen can grant you such clemency. But she has promised to see you at the Court should you win."

It clicks into place in John's mind. All those theories swirl into one until the only unacceptable one sticks out clearly. He finds himself questioning everything and nothing at the same time in those seconds before the words leave his mouth.

"The Court? Only Fae can enter that realm."

"Yes," the Fallen now smiles wider than Dean. "Why else would I entertain an audience with you?"

--

They thought they had time. Time to mull over words spoken and things stolen. If things began with a bang and ended with a whimper, this was the intermission -- set aside from the story as a stepping stone, no less important, but out of tone. Their lives were motel rooms and creepy monsters often seen in urban legends, not fairy tales.

Faeries belonged in Welsh and Irish stories told by musty professors or hippies in swishing skirts with long hair. Like vampires, they weren't supposed to exist, at least in North America; just fragments of a time long past when the Earth was worshipped and there were several Gods instead of one. Despite recent encounters, believing still came like grasping at straws.

Even when the Fallen stood and motioned for them to do the same, the forest morphing around them as the table and chess game disappeared into green foliage. It snakes up and around them, thick vines of ivy swirling around the tree trunks, constricting branches and free leaves, slithering across the ground around their feet, ensnaring their ankles.

They thought they had time.

"Good luck," the Fallen says, holding up a hand. "May God gaze kindly upon you."

With a jolt, the vines tug against them, pulling the pair through the ground into thick dust and dirt. Dean likens it to the sensation of being drowned in Earth, though this time he can see his tormentor. He shuts his eyes against the dirt only to feel them burning underneath his lids. Everything is dark and suffocating just like the world he's been living in for the past week, except he can feel it all and see it all around him.

A trick. Asking the Fallen to concede had been a mistake -- Dean knew the moves, knew there was a chance the angel could have won the game, if willing to take a few risky chances. Dean's an unorganized player, relying on intuition instead of studied moves of established masters, but that doesn't mean he can't be predictable.

Or a fool.

The fact that neither of them saw this coming comforts Dean a bit, but he's suffocating again and hates that sensation, so there's little to make him feel better unless it's the sudden disappearance of the dirt sinkhole they've been pulled in to. His ankle is still being squeezed by the vines, and half his calf; he's still traveling downward, though the end destination is unknown.

With a snap, Dean's un-casted right arm is pulled free from its sling, dragged above him with a painful tug against it. He opens his mouth to cry out and catches himself too late. God, it's happening all over again, he thinks as the dirt crushes him and slides past him, and fuck, why did he ever have to take that walk in the first place?

--

John lands with an oof on fern-covered ground, the thick undergrowth enough to cushion his fall. Dirt falls through with him, skittering onto his head until the flow tapers off and leaves him listening to that silence he's come to expect in these other realms created by magic. So foreign yet comforting; John stands and brushes himself off, using the absolute silence of a world untouched by humming electrical machines to listen for any sign of Dean.

He can't be far. The glen isn't large, no wider than the clearing found earlier, surrounded by old trees, older than John's seen in a long while. His ankle gives a bit under him as he takes a step, tender from the vines' grip, but he ignores the pang of pain that runs up his leg. First, Dean.

There's no telling where he is, or what could be lurking behind the thick trunks of the ancient trees. John closes his eyes and thinks while listening. Dean was standing next to him when the vines pulled at them, so why hasn't he appeared yet? If the properties of space acted differently here, and John had the impression they did, then Dean couldn't be too far off.

Separated by feet or miles, Dean had to be somewhere in this forest.

_Make a sound, boy._ Anything to clue him in. There are no markings on the ground other than the indentation made by his own fall, no footsteps to indicate Dean arrived earlier and wandered off.

There aren't stars, but there is a sun hanging in the sky. John smiles. It's setting in what he has to assume is the west, though that doesn't matter. His sons have been taught well; when lost or separated, John told them to head to the north and wait to meet up with their father.

John orients himself and heads south.

The glen slopes near the south end into the trees, giving into the foliage. Here, the forest grows denser; John keeps the sun to his right and heads into the darker forest, the canopy thick overhead.

No animals tromp around. John hasn't seen a single insect climb the barks of the trees or skitter under his feet. The heat and dense green around him reminds him of the jungles of Vietnam; his eyes keep darting to the trees and the snakes that would fall from them, phantoms dropping from above to bite his fellow soldiers. Or gunshots from nowhere. He expects a _pop pop_ from somewhere, but knows the waiting game. Days without sound, without a sign of anyone else.

He brushes those memories away. That was another life in another time. Monsters are no longer fellow men but creatures with less feeling than other soldiers.

A crack of a twig is his only warning; John whirls around --

"Man, there you are," Dean says. He stands behind John cradling his right arm tightly against his chest, enough sweat on his brow to mat his hair to his forehead. "Where the fuck are we, now?"

"I don't know."

"God _damnit_," Dean swears, walking in a circle and squinting up at the sky through the leaves. "That angel guy, he really screwed us over big time, didn't he?"

"I don't know why he would, Dean. What motive would he have?"

"Motive? Since when do these things need _motives_?"

John nods; Dean has a point. Humans rarely recognized their own motives for actions, and they had a moral compass. At least most did.

"I say he tossed us off somewhere and is having a good laugh with his regular chess buddy," Dean continues. He stops pacing and stares at the sky. "You hear me, you angelic son of a bitch?"

"Stop shouting," John implores, eyes searching the forest for unknown foe attracted by Dean's tantrum. "We don't know what's out there, Dean. Keep your voice down."

"Yes, sir. Sorry."

"Have you seen anything? Any landmarks that might let us know where we are?"

Dean shakes his head. "No, nothing. Hell, I'm glad I can see at all."

"Save that for later; we don't know how long it'll last."

"Way to deflate my joy, dad. You see anything?"

This time, John shakes his head. "I started in a clearing a few hundred feet back."

"Lucky. Hit a few branches on the way down."

"Is that how you hurt your arm?"

Dean looks down at it and shakes his head, hugging it tighter against himself. "Naw. Dirt did this. Hurts like a bitch."

"Is it bleeding?"

"Never stopped to check," Dean admits. John moves in to check, but Dean waves him off. "Later. We've got to find out where we are and how to get out of here. East or west?"

John finds Dean's attitude surprising, but not unwelcome. The results of the training given over the last twenty or so years has paid off; Dean stands in front of him waiting for an answer, some indication of which way they should head. Father clashes with hunter again – it's been happening too often lately, a weakness John knew he had but dislikes at inopportune times – but he pushes Dean and his pale face aside.

"West" John answers. "We're losing sunlight."

Dean gives a curt nod and heads for the failing sunlight, steps barely making any sound as he walks across undergrowth. John pauses a moment, then follows.

--

The second time Dean falters, they've been walking for over an hour. The sun's already dipped behind the tops of the never-ending forest of thick trees, leaving them with the light of dusk; purple and blue and black that casts an uneasy shadow over everything. He tumbles over his own feet, his dad catching him inches from the ground.

He sinks down, rolls over, and sits up against a nearby tree. "Sorry. Just give me a second."

"Take your time, son," John says. "I don't think we've gone very far."

"First time moves in a loop, then space? I'm getting sick of this stuff. What happened to straight forward time and space?" Dean shakes his head. "Too much physics." He leans his head back against the tree and closes his eyes for a moment. The back of his throat tickles with the memory of inhaled dirt and he gives in, coughing and sputtering whatever's left from the encounter he didn't leave on the ground next to where he landed.

Gives it due time, then lets it pass. There's never enough time to dwell on things that slow you down, just on getting back up to speed. Bruised and battered all over again and it's just the same old injuries jostled by this messed up attempt at a meeting.

"Better keep moving. Who knows what's out there, huh?" he says, pushing himself up with the help of the tree behind him.

Manages to get to his feet without assistance, something he applauds himself on; nothing brings smiles like small victories. It isn't the forest that raises goosebumps along his arms, nor the queasy feeling deep in his stomach from the pain in his arm; Dean feels something else entirely, not unlike that plaguing him since leaving Estrella's layer. They are somewhere within the realms of fae, and the fact that no one's shown their face since they arrived only intensifies his feeling that this is all a huge mistake.

He's never valued anything above his life, not since Sam left, and his sight, while appreciated and missed, isn't something he's willing to walk into the preverbal fire for. Holding not only his own life, but that of his dad -- of a man with so much more importance in the grand scheme than himself -- only digs that well of guilt deeper.

Surely, his dad trusted his contact, or else he wouldn't have set up a meeting with a recommended contact. Though the cloud of doubt had followed his dad around for a few days after the initial call, like he had done something he didn't wish to do and was living with the consequences. It was a look and feeling Dean knew well, and when his father would finally turn in for the night, Dean searched as best he could for some clue as to what was given up for such a shady meeting in the first place.

So far, he's without any answers. Simply more questions.

Which he'll never voice, at least he never _intends_ to do so; what's exchanged during an argument in a cloud of angry haze is something you can't really control. Then again, what is intention but carefully constructed ties to get you out of a promise? Fingers crossed behind the back?

The same could be said for motive, though a stretch of the imagination. Whatever the purpose behind the Fallen's betrayal, it's clear he intended to allow them to see the Queen, but never said he would. _Alluded_ to it, but never clearly stated, 'Winning this game will give you access to the Queen.'

"Damnit," Dean mutters under his breath. How could they be so damn foolish?

"Don't worry," says his dad from beside him, "someone must have told Stallis if we won, we'd see the Queen. Fae might be keen on tricks, but they can't lie."

"Yeah, well, Stallis is human. He's got no restrictions on lying."

"Comes back to motive. What would he gain by lying to us?"

Intention. That's what it all comes down to. Dean sees his opening and can't resist. "What would he gain, dad? What did you give Martin in exchange for setting up the meeting?"

The question catches John off-guard, not the words themselves but the person who's asking. He looks at Dean, asks him why he's doing this now, here, when there are so many other things to be wondering about. Never says a word, but then, he doesn't have to; all his looks and glances are carefully labelled and categorized in Dean's head from years of tandem hunting.

"What makes you think I had to give him something?" John counters. "He owed me."

"That's why you've been moping around the last few days. C'mon, dad."

"You don't need to bother yourself with the details. Martin wouldn't have sent Stallis if he were going to lie, end of discussion."

If Dean were Sam, he'd question further.

But he isn't. So he backs down and mutters a respectful response. Pushes forward and wonders if the Fallen didn't lie, and had no ill motives, then where the hell was the Queen?

"Hell has nothing to do with it."

The quip, uttered by someone unseen and unheard by both experienced hunters, causes the pair to turn around and face the visitor, pride wounded by the surprise they managed to pull on them.

Or rather, _she_.

Unlike Estrella, a woman of contradicting images, Dean finds himself face to face with a woman whose beauty transcends the Glamour he can see through. Even with her magic striped away by his eyes, Dean finds her attractive, a woman he'd seek out in a crowded bar. He has no doubt the light that's risen above her helps to illuminate her golden hair just so, but she's a being that would look heavenly in any light.

Blue eyes look over them with otherworldly-wisdom. For her appearance of only twenty-so years, this being carries the grace and knowledge of someone much older – older, Dean's sure, than many things on Earth.

"Not fair," is all Dean can manage – is there something wrong with the wiring in his head? All he can manage is a fourth-grade retort?

"You think too loud," the woman replies. "Loud enough for me to seek you out instead of allowing you to find me."

"You're the Queen," John breathes. He sounds as astounded as Dean, though age must have helped form a semi-intelligent comment.

"It is not obvious?" she pouts. Dean swears she did that on purpose.

"No, no," he backpedals for mankind. "It's obvious. Yeah. Really obvious."

She smiles. A beaming, bright smile he could melt into. If she could do that without Glamour; _damn_, Dean wishes he couldn't see through it.

"I didn't believe them, at first," the Queen begins. Behind her, a stump grows from the ground in a twist of brown twists of wood, and she sits upon it just as it moves up and fully forms. Doesn't offer them a seat, but there's ample ground and the undergrowth of moss is soft.

Neither take a seat.

"Believe what?" asks Dean.

"Your Sight. I know what happened, and it is regrettable, but not without precedent. It has been our way of keeping our secrecy since a time before time, when our people roamed the Isles freely. I don't know what you wish to accomplish."

"Accomplish? Hey, I didn't ask for any of this. I was just out taking a walk, minding my own business, when that bitch kidnapped me," Dean says. His voice rises to a dangerous level, echoing through the thick trees as it would in a stone tunnel.

The Queen nods patiently. "I understand this was a condition bestowed unwittingly upon you."

"Bestowed? You want to tell me exactly how _that_ happened?"

This time, the Queen frowns, and it isn't an act like before. True confusion blossoms across her golden face; catching her so off-guard gives Dean pause, and he mirrors her expression on his own face. The pause gives his anger a moment to simmer, for the reality that the Fallen was merely playing with them – his version of life-sized chess – and he wavers on his feet.

"Perhaps you'd like to take a seat, rest a bit. The Unseelie Queen picks her tormentors well; even a week of the best rest would leave you aching," the Queen offers, holding out a slender hand. Gives him an opening to sit without appearing weak.

Dean groans as he sits, pulling his legs to sit cross-legged on the moss, relaxing as it gives beneath him. Something about the forest gives him a renewed sense of strength, without it, he believes he'd be asleep and useless. John takes a seat next to him, putting Dean just slight of his left shoulder, a protective move Dean would normally complain about but now just appreciates it silently.

"You don't sound like you're willing to help," John says, filling the gap in the conversation. "Makes one wonder why you'd go through all this."

"To answer your questions. I feel I can at least do that, if not anything more. I would not like you to have an inaccurate opinion of our kind based on this experience."

There are times to speak, and times to stay quiet. Dean holds his tongue even as questions and retorts fly through is mind at amazing speed. Anger wells up again, anger at all this, but understands allowing it to vent will only keep him from learning _why_. Why beyond all the possible answers he's formed in his mind through days and nights of darkness.

His heart aches when he realizes this sight, this ability to see, will be gone as soon as this meeting finishes.

The Queen rests her hands folded in her lap. "The fae who captured you did not tell the Unseelie Queen everything, and for that, she would have been punished. She presented you as a full human -- "

John leans forward, voice coarse with underlying anger. "Why wouldn't she?"

"Because you carry fae blood. How else would your son have inherited such a gift?"


	9. Part 2, Chapter 3

This chapter's for carocali and lemmypie since I was mean and teased them with the ending to this at lunch. hugs Sorry, girls! It's all typed up, now, though…. wink

* * *

**These Crimes of Illusion  
**_Chapter 2.3_

There is a simple definition John Winchester lives by, one created the day he decided to seek vengeance – no, _revenge_ – against the demon that took his wife's life. At first, his vendetta was aimed only at those who allied themselves with the demon, with _evil_. And as his anger and sorrow grew, so did his definition. Those he hunted were not human. Any creature, any monster that possessed abilities outside the realm of normal soon became evil to John, and he hunted them down without mercy to make sure no more innocents died.

A line had been established, one that separated killing those who have killed and those who were human – to kill humans would make him no better than the monsters and demons lurking in the dark.

And yet, did this revelation make him one of the monsters, according to his own definition? A being with abilities outside what normal humans _should_ have? He couldn't discount his own acceptance of Missouri Mosley, a friend from the days when everything was colored in shades of black, with her odd psychic powers. She so clearly represented _good_; John recognizes the lack of parameters set in his skewed definition.

Only, this time, it wasn't an outsider with such powers or abnormalities, or a distant friend, but _himself. His family_. How do you fight something you _might_ become?

In that case, how do you know _what_ you will become, if anything?

"You didn't know," the Queen deduces from John's silent brooding and Dean's shocked expression. Her face is a picture of calmness, serenity radiating from her gold and silver clad frame. Whatever abilities she possesses, and John is sure the list is longer than those compiled through myths and local legends, she gives the impression of a human woman listening intently to his grievances. Royalty comes only from her posture and soulful eyes.

Dean shakes his head to John's left; one glance at those odd, light eyes gives John the impression the Queen isn't the only one withholding some kind of ethereal knowledge. "Is this something we were supposed to know? 'Cause I'm sure I missed the message -- "

"Dean," John says, voice close to a growl.

"What? You're just going to take this? Believe her when she says that?"

"Are you accusing the Faerie Queen of lying?" asks the Queen. "When you come at my invitation?"

"I'm finding it hard to believe," Dean stutters, "I didn't mean – aww, _shit_." He takes a deep breath and ignores that tickling at the back of his throat, still clinging to his illusion of strength in the Queen's presence. "You can't lie, right? Just...if you say that, it's true, then." Dean runs a hand over his face. "So, what? I get this and no one else does? How's _that_ selection process work?"

The Queen visibly collects herself, shines pity upon them. "Like any other trait of genetics. I am sure there are others in your family with abnormal abilities, gifts of the fae." John remains silent, and she casts him a reassuring smile. "It is why darker spirits and creatures are drawn to you, to your family. Why you are hunters of the highest kind."

"Are you saying..." but John trails off, unable to complete the sentence. _Are you saying Mary's death was my fault?_ Was it this unknown family secret – and _damnit_, did anyone know? -- that drew the demon to their family, to Sam, and ultimately caused Mary's death?

"Don't you go there," Dean says. "I've had to deal with Sam and his stupid guilt; I'm not going to deal with yours, too." His face colors with anger, red flush rushing to his cheeks, and he gestures with his left hand; letting go of his right arm allows it to slip down a bit, and he grimaces, but doesn't give any ground.

He turns his attention to the Queen, catching his arm but not his temper. "Don't say that's the reason like it's something simple. Like my mom was just 'misplaced.' I've got to believe there's something more."

"Did you learn nothing from Fallen?" she asks, unaffected by Dean's anger. "We are all merely pieces on a game board, controlled by fate. No one knows the end, but we all can _know_ our lives are advancing the game towards completion."

"No, that's not good enough. We go through all this shit so, what? Someone else down the line can reap the rewards? Where's our thanks? Who's watching out for _us_?"

"At the moment, I am." Her voice has risen, his yelling and accusations finally slipping under the calm exterior. "And you would be wise to remember as much."

Their argument, to John, is a movie, something he's watching passively, not actively participating in. Dean moves to stand, to advance toward the Queen, fueled by anger, and John _knows_ he should say something, should move to stop his son from doing something he may later regret. Yet despite all his training, all he's said and done for the last twenty years, he finds himself paralyzed by words, mind unable to move past the idea that _he'd_ drawn the demon to their home all those years ago.

What had Dean said? That he'd dealt with Sam's guilt for years? How could Sam even _begin_ to believe it was his fault? The poorly-formed thoughts of a child living under a canopy of evil led Sam to many odd conclusions about life, but this one?

Where had John been when Sam formed this idea, and how could he not have _noticed_?

"I am in the position to offer you a deal," continues the Queen. Dean's standing, but frozen in place by her declaration. "_If_ you are finished ranting about your place in the grand scheme of things."

Dean gulps. "Yeah. Sure."

"There is a being, not unlike yourself, hunting down our kind in your world," she explains. "A human with the ability to see Glamour. I am willing to restore your normal sight and offer my protection, and the Unseelie Queen will release her geas upon you for slaying her kin."

"If?"

"You slay him."

John feels his sadness turn to anger, that definition imprinted deep within him screaming for him to _move_, to _stop this_. To kill a human is to cross that line separating them from that they hunt, that they've _sworn_ to hunt and kill – their purpose is to _protect_ humans.

Yet if they _are_ more than human, where does that line now lie?

Beside him, Dean's mouth is a hard, thin line, eyes impossibly dark where no color exists. He doesn't speak, doesn't move other than to take shallow breaths, mind considering her deal.

Considering the death of a human! At his own hand!

"Dean, look at me," John commands. Dean moves as if he's controlling his body from somewhere else; a slow, mechanical movement more out of memory than actually hearing the words. "You don't have to do this. There's got to be another way. We'll find it."

"The Unseelie Queen will continue to hunt your son until she has his blood. She is not as kind a negotiator as I," chimes the Queen. "If it is the human that causes your apprehension, he is a perversion of humanity, one who hunts our kind without mercy, or honor. He must be stopped."

"And how's that make him any different than us?" John counters, picking himself up from the ground. "We hunt your kind."

"You don't understand. There is a natural balance to the world, one of good and evil. Hunting those who disturb this balance is necessary, hence your kind, the hunters among the humans. This human kills without allowing any crimes; many he slays are good beings, pure innocent beings who have done no wrong." She takes a breath and softens her voice. "You fight with mercy, with honor; you have purpose and standards. You kill only those who have killed first in order to save innocents. How is this any different?"

"We've never killed a human."

"If you met a serial killer, would you hesitate? A monster of a man who hurts children?"

"No."

"Then tell your son to take the deal. He will regain his sight without losing the ability to See. And no longer will worry about the Unseelie creatures hunting you."

"And if he doesn't? He won't be able to see, right?"

"Or live without fear of discovery."

"I'll do it," Dean croaks at John's side. He clears his throat and repeats himself.

"Son," John almost begs. Is this how he'll lose him? Will the task of killing another human take what good he possesses to leave him evil? _God_, the lines are so blurred, he feels they'll fall off the side of the balance beam at any second.

And accepting her deal will cause a huge earthquake beneath the beam.

"You accept. Understand your terms. You have one week to complete this task – neither side is willing to lose many more fae. And your father cannot assist other than to help with locating this man and backing you up, understand? His blood must be on your hands."

Dean nods weakly.

Hardly able to watch, John focuses on how the light plays through the leaves of the forest's canopy. He hears all that is exchanged, but feels one glance in Dean's direction will leave him in tears – of all the things asked of Dean, unfairly asked of the boy, John never expected something such as this. He wonders if the rewards are worth the price.

And if Dean will emerge with his soul intact.

* * *

Morning has come and gone by the time they emerge from the forest, thick summer heat causing the blacktop around the Impala to waver, creating the impression of a mirage. Dean puts a hand on the car just to make sure it's really there, that none of this was a dream. That for a few hours, he could see without the complications of Glamour, could enjoy the beauty of the forest and know for sure his father was there, next to him, at every turn.

Now, outside the forest and glade created by the Seelie Queen, his father's a ghost, quietly moving through the motions of starting the car and backing out of the space. If it weren't for the underbrush snapping beneath his dad's feet, Dean would never have found his way back, and all attempts at conversation have been met with stern silence. Dean shifts in the leather passenger seat and leans his head against the window. Even in this heat, the glass is cool against his forehead, and he enjoys it while it lasts.

"Can you turn on the AC?" he ventures to ask before reaching out to follow the curve of the dashboard. His dad's hand comes up to block his, and a second later, a stream of cool air flows from the vent in front of him. It fights against the mid-day summer sun and gives a bit of relief.

Dean feels this silent treatment will go on forever when his father clears his throat and asks: "How's your arm?"

"Fine," Dean replies. "She healed it up good."

"Good," John grunts back.

The silence continues, extending past the edges of the forest preserve to the highway beyond; Dean can hear the cars, feels the jolt of speed as his father turns out onto a busier road. Things were so much _easier_ when he could see, could use John's facial expressions as an indicator of his dad's mood. But in the blanket of black that's become his home, a world of sound and touch, he can't tell. He's tried placing a hand on his dad's shoulder, but it's shrugged off before he can sense what's boiling under the surface.

So he shifts and lets his head settle against the chilled window, the air conditioning aimed at his face. His right arm, repaired by the Seelie Queen before their departure, lies in his lap. Dean moves it once and awhile, when he feels his uneasiness build, drumming his fingers on his thigh in time with the music pouring from the Impala's speakers. It fills the silence as best music can when such strains hang heavy in the air; even with the air conditioning running, Dean feels the car is stuffy, and runs a hand over the interior of his door to find the window lever.

"What are you doing?" John says when Dean has the window open a crack. The breeze he missed on the trip into the state has returned, and he's closed his eyes to feel it tickle his eyelids and brush his hair back from his forehead. "Dean?" he continues when there's no answer.

"Nothing. Just need some fresh air."

"After all that time we spent out in that forest?" John counters.

Dean shrugs. How can he explain it? There's something comforting about the air rushing past them; it reminds him there are things larger than himself, and with all he's learned, all he's agreed to do, he needs that reminder if only to quell some deep-set anger. The impossibility of the situation isn't lost on Dean, the choice he's made one he's been taught to work against since he first received a gun at nine.

Icy air mingles with the heat outside, but instead of closing the window, he feels a bit chilly and closes the vent. He leans back in the seat and frowns.

"What? Now I'm cold. You didn't have to turn it on high."

But he knows why he's all hot and cold on the flip of a coin, and it has nothing to do with the open window or setting of the A/C. His arm may be healed, but the Queen was right; Estrella's crimes were far worse than what can be seen on the outside, and Dean wonders if the Queen knew his head swims when he does more than walk a few feet, or feels the cold sweat break out when he wakes up in the middle of the night. The damage is deeper, and he has a strong feeling it had to do with whatever he drank out of desperation.

"I don't understand it," John says. "Why can't they just send one of their own?"

Dean considers this for a moment, tagging it onto his thoughts. "Doesn't matter, either way."

"Oh?"

"She set us up to fail," Dean declares. He rolls the window down farther and leans an arm out onto the edge as a pillow for his head. "There's no way I'll be able to track and hunt without being detected, dad. This guy's going to see me coming and who's to say he's not crazy enough to kill me after a faerie massacre?"

John's quiet for a moment, mulling it over. "We can always find another way."

"Naw. I already said I'd try. Can't turn your back when you make a deal with their type." For the Sight, he was only tortured and blinded; Dean hated to think what would happen if both he and his dad ran off to find a better deal. With packs from both sides hunting them, how long would they survive before faerie caught up and decided to extract revenge?

"Why did you make that deal in the first place?" John asks. "You know we draw the line at humans."

The million dollar question. John's voice wavers just a bit when he says _humans_ like maybe he's not so sure himself. Is there ever a _worthy_ reason to cross lines? Or are they set in concrete, marking a point of no return? Dean's sure the Queen told him about the man's crimes to help sway his mind, depending on his deeply-rooted sense of right and wrong hero complex to kick in and tell him it's okay as long as the man's _evil_.

So Dean takes a deep breath and weeds it out the best way he knows, by talking it out without thinking first. "It's either him or me," he says slowly. "It comes down to that. He's doing bad; I'm doing good. Guess we'll see who wins in the end, huh?"

Dean shivers, and doesn't know if it's the rising fever or the words he's spoken.

* * *

A new place means Dean needs to learn the layout all over again, their transient lifestyle not designed to accommodate a blind man. John grabs a room and unpacks his bags before the passenger door opens with a creak of metal against metal and Dean steps out onto the baking blacktop, hands shoved in his pockets.

"Where are we?" he asks. His head moves back and forth like he's taking in the sights, but John knows those icy eyes aren't seeing anything anymore, and Dean's eating up the sounds surrounding them. "Went a bit far from the highway, didn't you?"

If anything, Dean will come out of all this with sharper hearing, John's sure of that.

"A little ways. Figured you needed some peace and quiet," he admits. Grabs Dean's bag from the back seat and slams the door a little harder than he intended, and Dean gives him a sharp, if unfocused, look.

"Yeah. Thanks. You okay?"

"I'm fine."

Dean snorts. "Right. Takes one to know one."

He's right, but John doesn't reply. The room's on the first floor, a few doors down from where the Impala's parked; he hefts both bags onto his shoulders and starts off, expecting Dean to follow.

_New places means re-learning_. Behind him, Dean clears his throat.

"Hey, you going to help me out? Or should I just find a twig and feel my way?" His voice holds impatience and frustration under the playful tone, using humor to defuse an awkward situation as he has since starting kindergarten. John loops back and stands beside Dean, wondering how this is going to work. He's used to Dean following the sound of his footsteps, weaving back and forth in a serpentine line but ultimately getting to where he's going.

He's surprised when Dean starts patting his arm, and almost moves defensively before Dean grips his elbow and smirks. "Lead on," he says, motioning with his other hand.

John manages to keep his anger in check until he unlocks the door to the room and steps inside. He flips the light on, finds an armchair, and throws the bags into it, bypassing the beds completely. Dean flounders in the middle of the room, cursing when his shins knock into the edge of one of the beds; he reels backwards only to find the dresser with his back, and swears again. The moves do little to dissuade John, instead, it only reminds John of everything that's happened, all the decisions made and things asked of them, and it only helps to fuel things.

"Damnit, Dean," he half-shouts, mindful of his voice in a crowded motel. "There's always another way, a better way."

Dean freezes halfway between the beds and the dresser, hand rubbing his right shin coming up slowly as he straightens up. His face is blank, confused.

"Why couldn't you tell her you'd think about it? There's nothing wrong with taking some time to think things over, weighing the pros and cons, going into the deal with some background."

"You're back on that?" Dean asks. "I thought we already discussed it."

"We discussed it, but weren't finished." John shakes his head. "I just don't understand it. You're being foolish, going into this half-cocked. I know you want to get your sight back, son, but is this worth it? Crossing this line?"

He _wants_ Dean to reply, to yell back at him and tell him what he needs to hear – that it _is_ worth it, this time, that they can be flexible. The greater good should win out. But Dean won't – Dean isn't his brother, isn't the one who argues and talks back, makes John want to rip out his hair from frustration. Dean is the good son, the one who will keep everything to himself and run blindly into the face of danger if his father tells him to – even if he disagrees.

Dean just shakes his head and takes a few careful steps backwards to lean against the dresser. Takes John's shouting without defending himself in any way. Has he truly convinced his oldest he's always right?

"Dad," says Dean softly. "You think she's right? That..." He hesitates and takes a deep breath before rubbing the back of his neck. "I mean, wouldn't someone know or something? There'd be some sign, right? You hit puberty, you sprout wings?"

John laughs at that. Takes the moment and holds it close because there aren't very many times he can feel his anger melt away. Anger in general; he totes it around close to his heart next to revenge and those lingering tendrils of love left from the last time he felt Mary. She could make him forget the troubles of the world, and Dean inherited that gift. When John looks up, Dean's smirking, a real smile spreading up through those odd eyes, and John can see a hint of _Dean_ in them.

The glimpse is gone, though, Dean leaning heavier against the dresser than he was a moment ago, eyes half-closed. Despite his humor and the smirk still lingering upon his lips, he looks tired, exhausted even, the weight of the world sitting on his shoulders and pushing him down.

"You mind if I take a shower?" asks Dean. He rubs his eyes with closed fists, much like he did when a toddler and staving off sleep to play with his brother just a little longer, please, daddy? Dean takes his silence as an okay and pushes off the dresser only to pause, wavering on his feet in the center of the room. "Uhh..."

"Six steps, turn left," John answers. It's clinical instead of emotional; he could very well walk over and take Dean's hand as he did when leading his son across the street, but doesn't. Just gives him specific directions and leaves him to fend for himself.

Dean takes it in stride, as always, and it's enough to warm John's heart. The part still beating, at least, fueled by revenge, running off patterns ingrained in him during ten weeks of boot camp. He watches his oldest son walk towards the bathroom, carefully measuring his steps as to avoid bumping into furniture – John's seen the countless bruises added to the fading ones of green and yellow leftover from Dean's imprisonment – and disappear through the door. It closes, but there's no click of the lock.

Whether it's for Dean's safety or a way to quell his own fears, John doesn't know. He just wonders when such a thing became normal, and God, would the rest of their lives be like this? Dean relying on audio or tactile clues to move around, re-learning each hotel room only to move onto the next, his body taking on shades of blue and purple as he tries – and never complains – to learn everything so he can move without hindrance? John claimed Dean wasn't useless, that he still served a purpose, but as the shower starts up and John looks down at Dean's bag, left on the chair next to him, he can't help but feel maybe his words of comfort were a bit premature and not at all true.


	10. Part 2, Chapter 4

Props, as always, to Koyote for her amazing beta skills. ;) I wouldn't sound so elegant without her. **  
**

**These Crimes of Illusion  
**_Chapter 2.4_**  
**

Five a.m. in any state is quiet. After years of living across the nation, in every type of town, from speck on the map to great urban centers, John Winchester enjoys waking up early and going outside; sometimes walking around the wherever he's currently calling home. His internal clock wakes him just after sunrise; he grabs his journal and cell phone before donning his jacket and slipping out of the room where Dean still slumbers somewhat peacefully after only a few nightmares that night, one bad enough to wake both of them.

It was enough to convince John of the severity of their situation. He finds a secluded picnic table between two dying trees, forgotten by the summer patrons that no longer arrive during vacations that never happen, and takes a seat. Flips open his journal to one of the first telephones number written down – Caleb, one of his earliest friends as well as his exclusive ammunition dealer. He gave John a considerable discount after he confessed, teary eyed, that all he had was four hundred dollars, the last of his sons' depleted college fund.

They're on the east coast and Caleb's on central time, but men like them don't sleep through the night. There's a moment's hesitation before he dials – the story he's concocted during those hours of the night when Dean tossed and turned and mumbled in his sleep runs through his head one more time – then he types in the number and waits for it to ring.

Three rings, then a click and the rusty croak of a sleepy voice. "Yeah?"

"Caleb, it's John."

There's a rustle of blankets before Caleb replies. "Hey, John, what's up? Haven't heard from you in awhile. You running out of ammo?"

"When am I not?" John jokes. "Always got something to hunt taking up my bullets."

"Told you to switch to hand weapons. I still favor the bayonet. Sure, they went out of style a hundred years ago, but hey, so did what we're killing."

"After the last few weeks, I'm ready to consider anything."

"That doesn't sound good," Caleb says. "It's not just anything that'll sway the mind of John Winchester. So why don't you tell me why you really called."

John runs his free hand through his messy hair and sighs, looking off into the distance where mountains loom ominously. Time to get that story straight; a man as experienced as Caleb can tell a lie even over the phone.

Good thing there isn't much lie to his story.

"It's Dean, Caleb. He got caught up in something big, and isn't looking too good."

"What kind of something?"

"It's fae, Caleb. They were looking for some hunter who's been after them, someone with the Sight."

"And what? Dean's got it?"

How much does he reveal? "Yeah. He's got it. Don't know how, but they messed him up good."

"And you're looking for whoever it was set for, right?" Caleb asks. There's a pause on the other end, a shifting. "What are you planning to do?"

"You know how it works. They realized their mistake, let him go. Going to keep tabs on him, make sure he doesn't start using it against them." That wasn't what Caleb was asking, but John hopes it's enough to quell any questions of revenge running through his friend's head. "Listen, Caleb. They," -- and here, he's all emotion -- "they blinded my boy. He can't hunt like he used to. I need help, help from someone who knows what they're doing."

"God, John, how's he coping?"

"How do you think he's doing? Running into furniture and swearing all the time."

"Got that from his old man," Caleb laughs. "Listen, I can make a few calls. I've sold some ammo to a few guys that could be used for what you're thinking about; I'll find out who's out there hunting fae. Just be careful, John. You play this the wrong way, people are going to think you're gunning for revenge."

"When am I not?"

"That's not what I meant."

John sighs. "I know. Thanks, Caleb. I owe you one."

"Naw. Dean's a nice guy. Cute kid, you know? Tell him to keep his chin up."

John nods, though Caleb can't see him, and hangs up without a goodbye. He flips through his journal, looking through years of research for anything to grant him inspiration; he's still uncomfortable with their whole plan of action, and despite Dean's claims that he's being set up for failure, that this will never go the way it sounds, John can't stomach the idea of hunting a human, a fellow _hunter_.

The hits keep on coming. John reads through the chronology of his life, then slides the pen from the rings in the center and turns to a blank page.

--

Dean's still sleeping when John returns two hours later. He hasn't moved an inch; still wrapped up in the scratchy covers he became entangled in during one of his tamer nightmares, Dean snores softly. With a week's time limit placed on them, there's little time for sleep, and Dean should know better. John closes the door behind him and drops his journal -- rather loudly -- on the dresser across from the beds.

When Dean doesn't move, John's heart skips a beat. From surprise or worry, he doesn't know. All he _does_ know is the training he's given his sons never included being heavy sleepers. John takes a moment, watches the sunlight drift up the headboard, then looks at Dean's face. In the yellow light, his son is pale, skin no longer attempting to keep color in his cheeks.

"Dean, time to get up," John orders sternly from the end of the bed. He gives Dean a moment; he's always taken a bit longer than him or Sam to completely wake up, and shrugs out of his jacket before flipping on the coffeemaker.

The walls are a dark brown, almost mocha, not dark enough to make the room feel claustrophobic, but solid in color to act as a good backdrop to the kind of research organization John's used to. While hot water drips through into the waiting coffee pot, John pulls a folder from his bag and starts ripping pieces of tape from an old roll to stick papers onto the walls forming the corner near the table. Four papers, two handwritten earlier that morning in his journal, dot the wall at eye level when the coffee finishes and John snaps back enough to realize Dean still hasn't moved.

There haven't been many instances of Dean sleeping late, or not responding at all; John never experienced that rite of passage so many parents complain about, trying to wake his children for school. Never allowed them to sleep into the early hours of the afternoon, or ask for five more minutes over the noise of a blaring alarm. For him, his struggles came from more difficult conflicts, the weight of weapons or target practice.

So his methods are a bit improvised. John stands on the side of the bed closest to his son and reaches out a hand to prod at Dean's shoulder. Once. Twice. On the third try, Dean's eyes flash open and his hand flies under his pillow for the knife he now keeps there as protection against fae.

"Hey, Ace, it's dad."

Dean hesitates, then relaxes against the pillows. Wipes a hand across his forehead and closes his eyes again. "Man, what's up with you poking me?"

"What have I told you about sleeping through a door opening and closing? Or someone standing over your? Just because you can't see anything doesn't mean you get a free pass."

"Yes, sir," Dean says, voice scratchy with sleep.

"Don't let it happen again."

Dean nods. He stares at the ceiling, or whatever he can see above the bed, lacing his hands behind his head before catching the scent of coffee permeating the room.

"You made coffee?"

John doesn't answer. Dean's awake, so he moves back to his stack of papers and the roll of tape on the table, ripping off pieces and tacking things to the wall. Half the papers concern recent fae sightings, articles about the Sight published by others in their profession combined with his own notes. The others are maps and newspaper clippings, internet print outs and copies of official reports, all related, in some way, to the death of his wife. Unexplained fires. Odd storms. Infant and mothers' deaths.

All collected over the last month, studied as Dean slept or did investigating on his own. An invisible pathway, connect-the-dots between himself and the demon; finally, a trail to follow. He's gone too long with crumbs to sustain him, small clues or second-hand accounts. Every time he got close enough to smell a trail, it disappeared in a puff of smoke, sending him in a downward spiral. Each time hurting like the first loss.

There's a crash behind him, a yelp; the smell of coffee grows stronger in the room. Dean's stumbled, John thinks, stumbled because he only took a shower the night before and went to sleep before stepping out the layout of the room. Two papers left in his hands, and he chooses to let Dean figure this one out on his own while he finishes laying out his map to the demon on the walls. He steps back and looks it over in its entirety, secretly thankful Dean can't see a thing, can't see _this_, can't know what his father's been up to, or the obsession that kept him from searching Dean out.

"God _damnit_," Dean finally annunciates after a string of swears. He pounds a fist on the dresser; John's turned now to watch. Dean's body is rigid with frustration as coffee drips down the side of the dresser and plops onto the floor from the knocked over pot. "We've got to find this guy, dad, or I'm going to end up killing myself with a lamp or something."

"I'll clean it up," John says. Dean shakes his head.

"I've got it."

"Dean, leave it. I'll make a new one."

"Damnit, dad, I can clean up spilled coffee on my own," roars Dean uncharacteristically, swinging out with a hand to punch at anything the fist can find. It whooshes through empty air before smacking into the old television set. "Shit."

"Punching the TV isn't going to accomplish anything."

"I just..." Dean shakes his head as it drops to his chest. He looks up at John -- a fraction of an inch too far to the right, enough to remind John of his condition -- frustrated and angry with an undercurrent of _fear_. "How am I supposed to hunt like this, dad? How the _hell_ am I supposed to hunt a trained, and let's not forget _ruthless_, killer, when I can't even get myself a cup of Goddamn coffee?"

"With backup," answers John. Plain and simple. "I made a call this morning. We'll have something to work with this afternoon."

"Good," Dean says. "'Cause I really need some coffee."

--

John's phone rings around 2 p.m., the shrill ringing winning over the hum of the air conditioner as background noise to Dean's musings. It rings twice, vibrating against the surface of the table, before Dean grumbles and pushes off the bed. The trip to the table's without incident -- he spent hours after spilling the coffee mapping out the room in his head, walking around alone. John left once the coffee was cleaned up -- Dean's claim he could do it turning out to be nothing more than lip service, his own brand of hope -- to do his own research, hit the library, grab some supplies.

And yet, his cell phone sits moving across the table, rattling against the wooden surface with each ring.

It's peculiar, but Dean doesn't pause to ponder the implications of the handout; just picks up the phone, thankful for the vibrate feature, and flips it open with his thumb.

"Hello?" Uncertain; he'd never take caller ID for granted again.

"Hey, that you, Dean?"

Dean relaxes and feels around with his free hand for a chair, falling into the nearest one as soon as he finds it; despite hours of sleep and silent contemplation, weariness taints his every movement. Slow and sluggish, it takes him a moment to recognize the voice on the phone, but he does, and leans back in the chair.

"Yeah. What's up, Aaron? Still losing against Pastor Jim at archery?"

"Hey, that was a one-time thing. No need to go making a pattern out of it."

He smiles at the memory, Pastor Jim duking it out with his fellow hunters during one of those rare occasions when they all gathered together; Aaron Masterson's loss at archery -- a sport he'd mastered years.

They rarely saw each other anymore, the men who'd forged friendships through a common fight against the shadows of the world, creatures and monsters stepping out into the world more often now. Phone calls and emails were their method of communication, asking for advice and knowledge when in a tight spot. Nothing more, nothing less.

"Yeah, right. I'll believe it when I see it," he laughs. It feels good until he realizes he might _not_ see it, even if Aaron _does_ -- and probably would -- beat everyone out at archery.

Aaron must be thinking the same thing; Dean can hear him breathe on the other end -- it's amazing what he can hear these days, from a fly buzzing around inside the motel room to what kind of car has pulled up outside. He can't stand silence, not when there's someone to talk to after hours of listening to the television or talking to himself (a sign of oncoming insanity, he's sure), and clears his throat.

"You've heard, huh?"

Aaron's words come out in a rush. "Yeah. I'm so sorry, Dean. That's got to be tough."

Tough doesn't even begin to describe it. "Naw, I'm doing fine."

"Sounds like something your dad would say. Always fine. Bet he'd say that if he lost a limb. 'I'm fine, Aaron. Just missing a hand.'"

He's glad Aaron's the one who's called, and not Mac or Bobby. They've never made him laugh like Aaron does; as Aaron _has_, in the past. Older than John by a handful of years, Aaron Masterson knew more people in their kind of work than anyone else, contacts collected over sixty years of hunting. He approached hunting much like John -- a reason the two got along so well -- hands-on after a moderate amount of research. Musty books and hours in a library weren't for him; Aaron, like so many others, depended on Pastor Jim when needing specific information.

But he was experienced, a fellow military man with a family he rarely saw in Arizona, and his call could only mean he found something worthwhile.

Dean wants to plead, _tell me you found something, tell me you found the man I have to kill_, but doesn't _ever_ want to sound as weak as he is in his head out loud. Leave all those insecurities and pathetic whimpers inside where he could berate himself in solitude.

"So," he says instead, "what's up?"

"Your dad anywhere around?"

"Got a problem telling me what you've got?" Dean shoots, suddenly defensive. Of what he _can_ do, speaking on the phone is the most useful, and to be cut out of this loop leaves him with little to offer.

"Now, Dean, you know I don't mean it like that. Just wanted to catch up."

Aaron's right, and Dean knows it. Knows he's clinging to whatever he can. Overly-sensitive, reading things wrong. There's so much to body language Dean has to re-learn by listening carefully to tone and volume, replacing a shift of weight to a subtle change underneath what someone says.

Not that there's body language over the phone. A lack of contact with anyone's left Dean's nerves on edge.

"Yeah. He's out. Left me here to ponder the answers to the universe," Dean remarks. "Give me something, I'll let him know. Anything's better than daytime television."

"And he left his phone?" Aaron asks.

"His way of giving me something to do."

"Don't think he's giving a handout or something, Dean. He knows your strengths; it's his way of dealing with everything."

"His way of dealing is leaving for most of the day," grumbles Dean. But this isn't the time for that. Information is what he needs. "Anyway, what do you have?"

"Caleb called, said your dad was looking for someone who deals with fae. I only know of a few, but when he told me about what happened to you, well, it made me think of one man in particular."

Dean wishes he had a pad of paper and a pen. He concentrates on the conversation instead, soaking in every detail.

"His name's Stewart Hall. He's a young guy, maybe thirty-five, been hunting for only a short bit. Came through and got all the weapons like he knew what he was doing. Gave himself away when he asked why he'd need silver rounds."

"Damn."

"Yeah. That's what Caleb said. Hall knows what he's doing, though. Has a kill count higher than, well, most of us. But he, well, he just _kills_. Most of us have the mind to go after evil, but Hall, he just -- "

"Kills the good and the bad."

"If these things were human, I'd call Hall a serial killer. Likes to make a show of it. Leave things so the fae _know_ it's him coming after them. Never asked why he does it -- "

"That's kind of how things work, isn't it?"

Aaron sighs audibly through the phone. "It shouldn't, damnit. We're here for each other when things get bad. Hunting shouldn't be to just kill every odd creature out there. How does that make us better than them?"

"It doesn't," Dean says. "You know where this Hall guy is?"

"Last time I checked, he was making his way up the east coast. I'd keep my eye on the paper, look for odd murders or signs of animal attacks. Hall's been after the Hunt -- God in Heaven. One of these days, the fae Queen's going to send someone after him, and I wouldn't be surprised if no one helps him out."

Dean nods, but no one can see. "Gotcha. Damn. The Hunt?"

"Like I said, he goes after anything, no matter what it is. You use your Sight enough, find some fae, and Hall will probably show up."

Hit or miss. For some reason, Dean likes the idea; running in head-first is his style, and wandering around the East Coast searching for fae hanging out in forests seems an appealing alternative to sitting in shapeless hotel rooms, listening to the air conditioner cycle on and off with clicks that should be his dad walking around the room. See some sights, meet new, interesting people.

The deep rumble of the Impala's engine approaches from the east -- he memorized the directions by listening to traffic reports while sitting next to the open window.

"Hey, hang on, Aaron. Dad's back."

"Sure thing, Dean."

Dean holds the phone against his shoulder and stands, feeling a bit more energized by the new information, and crosses to the door. After the failure of the knife in the doorframe, John put down lines of salt, hoping what repelled spirits would keep out fae. Neither were naive enough to believe salt would keep the more aggressive hunters at bay; the temporary reprieve offered by the Seelie Queen guaranteed safety, but neither Winchester was willing to take a chance, especially on the word of one of those they'd have no apprehensions about hunting should the situation arise.

The door clicks open, then sways shut with a slight sweep of sticky summer air. His dad past him, all dirt and grime mixing with the musky scent of old books. Dean lives in a world of smells and sounds; the slight off-beat of his dad's steps give away his exhaustion, the smell of library research and a bit of interviewing outside. Dean has yet to recognize the difference between city and rural musk, so he can't say exactly where John's been.

He'll ask later. "Dad, Aaron's on the phone."

"Thanks," John grumbles. He takes the phone the swipe of his large, calloused hand and turns away -- shift of jacket and rustle of jeans. Footsteps take him halfway to the door before he speaks over his shoulder, "I'll be outside," and the door snaps closed again.

Dean knows when he's being shut out. His dad adopted the same behavior after his failure with the shtriga, leaving Dean alone for hours while he worked on training with Sam. Hours outside practicing aim with a variety of weapons, the smaller ones, until John was confident Sam could defend himself if left alone again.

He's being tossed aside, a failure John has no use for. Dean lashes out, kicking a chair as far as he can, and falls to sit on the bed -- tired, aching, and almost wishing Stewart Hall was standing there, in front of him, so he could kill him.

Almost.

--

Six hours later, John packs up the room and holds out his elbow for Dean to take. Just stands in the center of the room waiting for Dean to pick up on the auditory clues and _get moving_. Staying in one place for too long makes him uneasy, reminds him of those months they'd spend in a city here or there so the boys could go to school, get a _traditional_ education. Remembering things then, when he split his life evenly between his children and his obsession, only reminds him of how he's _failing _now.

After a few seconds -- he counts off twenty-six -- John clears his throat. "Dean."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming," Dean rambles off from near the bathroom. "Just give me a second."

"You've had thirty."

There's no reply. John sighs, annoyed, and turns around.

His son stands at the bathroom door, hand braced against the frame as he takes wild gulps of air -- head ducked to minimize sound. The pallor of his face matches the paisley pale yellow wallpaper, minus the patterns etched into it, a sickly shade that make Dean's eyes look dark blue. In the dying light, sweat across his face giving off a glow -- he looks like an angel.

Biblical and moral implications aside, John recognizes the symptoms for what they are -- fever and exhaustion -- and wishes, _oh, does he!_ wishes he could see such a sight under better circumstances.

"What's wrong?" he asks. It's innocent, a question more to figure out what's going on rather than a reprimand, but Dean takes it as such. Straightens up and closes his eyes to help force his breathing under control.

"Nothing, just got up too fast."

He lurches forward on his feet, leaning a bit too much like a teetering toddler, and falls into the other side of the frame just in time to catch himself.

If Dean's going to deny anything's wrong, then John won't acknowledge it. He turns and retrieves their bags from where they've fallen to the floor, dropped when he turned, and waits. Counts off nine seconds before growing impatient, again, and briefly considers leaving Dean until he's got a solid lead on Hall.

Managing a situation like this requires patience, something John has in short supply. He pivots to the left, around, and frowns. "How long have you been feeling like this? All day?"

"Maybe you'd know if you'd been around," says Dean, eyes cast at the ground.

The idea of leaving Dean evaporates. Doing such would crush him, solidifying the notion he's useless, no longer a soldier fighting at his father's side. And if there's any hope of getting Dean's sight back, of getting his _son _back _whole_, he needs to keep what pieces are left together.

He helps Dean to the car and drives in silence, focusing on the soft breaths of his sleeping son; in, out, in, out, and _God_, when did everything get so fucked up?


	11. Part 2, Chapter 5

**These Crimes of Illusion**  
_Chapter 2.5_

Here, there's relief from the summer heat. Cool, crisp air circulates near the forest floor, damp earth fighting against the humidity, evaporating into a blanketing mist. Sound is dampened, muffled against rotting leaves and fallen twigs, captured between close trees. Above, where healthy green leaves rustle in the June breeze, birds chirp. Animals move. A thud sounds here and there as smaller creatures leap from tree to tree.

A glow surrounds the trees here, haloes of magic giving off gold and silver hues to match the electric undercurrent humming through the air. It's unexplainable to most, an odd feeling that raises the hairs on the arms and back of the neck. Makes them uncomfortable, on edge; keeps them away.

Crouched near some low brush, Dean Winchester watches as demi fae fly from tree to tree, laughing as they dance in the air to music he can't hear. Luckily. Most children had Dr. Seuss books and censored versions of the Grimm tales; the Winchester boys had gruesome legends of supernatural creatures and the raw German of the Grimm stories. Mortals who heard faerie music often succumbed to their doom, their fate decided by the temperament of the celebrating fae. Like his Sight, hearing and replicating their music was never meant for humans.

When a slight melody floats through the cooling air, Dean resists the urge to cover his ears. Block it out before he becomes entranced by its spell and forgets the reason he's been sitting here for hours. Instead, he focuses on his dad sitting a few trees away, across a small gap in the collection of trees, on the demi fae and their dance, on the off chance Stewart Hall will show up.

He can end it all, here and now.

The fever's gone away in the two hours they've been scoping out the forest in search of the owners of the Glamour dotting the area; Dean suddenly feels stronger and more alert, the aches from his injuries normal -- tolerable. _This_, he can live through. Handle. Rise above. And here, he has the upper hand, can prove his worth to his father by using his handicap to their advantage.

The music grows louder. Dean turns to his father, finding the gap in Glamour his father creates -- training in this area was always difficult for John when they were younger, when the wounds from war came floating to the surface -- and signals to him. Wonders if he can hear it, too.

Not that he can see any sort of response. There's a rustling of greenery, a few soft footfalls Dean can hear because of all his new practice at  
_listening_, then the hushed breath of his dad behind him.

"What is it?" he asks in a whisper.

"You don't hear that?"

"Hear what?" John says. "What is it, Dean?"

Dean listens for a moment, past the steady shifts of nature around them, to the musical tune falling down from above. Wood flute and perhaps some harp; Dean's never listened to classical music, never tried to distinguish between anything other than guitar and drums and the thump of a bass.

"Music," is all he can say, is the best he can describe it. "Some of that classical shit Sammy used to listen to." It lilts up and down, bouncing around like the group of demi fae.

There's a rush of breathe at his side. "Damnit." A hand on his shoulder. "We should leave."

"What?" Dean shoots back. "I haven't sat here and let my damn legs fall asleep so we could just leave when a bit of music plays." He shakes his head. "I'm not leaving."

"There will be other chances." John almost reads his mind. Reads that Dean needs this to be over _now_, that he can't take being blind and weak and helpless for _one more day_. It's too much to ask of him, but John does anyway. "It's not worth the risk."

"The risk? Like it can get any worse. What are they gonna do, pull my hair?"

"After they lure you back to their home," John comments. "Demi fae might be small, but they can be vicious. You still have blood, Dean, and they might not be so kind as to wait for word from their Queen about the geas."

"I thought those things were, you know, etched onto you. Like magic tattoos or something."

"You need to do more reading, Dean, if you're going to continue to insist on running into things without the proper preparation."

Dean scoffs, eyes wandering back to the flying creatures above. "Yeah, okay."

"Demi fae and fae don't get along very well. Unless they've already been attacked by Hall, they might ignore the Seelie Queen's geas just in spite her."

"Peachy." The music's louder, now, pounding in his over-sensitive ears. He wouldn't mind it so much, but he can't ignore it, can't find a discernable tune to follow.

It reminds him of Estrella's dance.

He shivers at the memory, finds himself feeling her hands pressed against his, pulling him around, feet stumbling to remember a pattern taught in the kitchen while dinner cooked and the sun caught his mother's golden hair. Swaying to the music; the sounds of the forest fade away, his dad's breathing fades, and he's -- _fuck_ -- back there, dancing with her.

Whites and blacks blend together; her face is _there_, in front of him, and she smiles that toothless grin. "Did you think you could kill me? That my spirit would die along with my body?"

She runs a finger down his face, along his neck, to where cuts are still healing -- _healing? Had they happened yet?_ -- across his chest. Her long nail slashes into him, deep, and he lets out a surprised cry before remembering he won't give in this way, not this time. Clamps his mouth shut, tries to pull away, but finds he can't move. Dean stands frozen, trapped within his own mind as Estrella's nail digs deeper and blood wells up around it. Bright red, cheap nail polish for this _bitch_ tormenting him. As she digs, his mind goes fuzzy, those blacks and whites blending together into shades of grey he's never really accepted --

"_Dean!" _

He blinks. Estrella's smile falters.

Another hand grabs his shoulder and jerks him away --

-- a flicker of his dad's worried brown eyes --

-- Estrella rushing away, as if pulled by a string at her back. The room pulls with her until it turns green, gold, silver, blacks against bright glows.

"Dean!" His dad's voice, loud and urgent with no regard to the demi fae above.

Pain jolts up his sides, across his chest where Estrella stabbed him with a sharpened nail. He's being shaken; beyond the sounds coming from his father, Dean hears muffled shouts, the swish of a knife moving through the air. Blinking doesn't help -- his father's still a blank spot against the Glamour --

"Thank God," his dad breathes. There aren't many things capable of upsetting his dad into thanking a savior he's never really believed in; Dean struggles to sit up -- _when did he fall?_ -- and leans against the nearest solid object.

It moves beneath him.

Dean allows himself the moment of weakness, leaning there against his dad even though he can't see him. It's the closest he's been to John for weeks -- hell, months, even -- and that undeniable solidity behind him gives moderate comfort, tells him his dad's really there. That for once, since Sam's departure, he's not off taking care of something else.

Fluttering wings float into Dean's field of vision, pinks and golds with strands of purple that give the appearance of unraveling lace. The demi fae is small, but proportionate; hands, body, eyes -- they all match each other, like someone miniaturized a human. The demi fae's beautiful, as he'd come to expect, but angry. Her teeth resemble a vampire's, at least from what Dean's seen in books.

She sneers, spreading her lips to show off a mouth full of sharp, bloody teeth. "That was delicious. It has been a long time since I've tasted the fae in a mortal."

"Wonderful," Dean says. "What, do I have some kind of invisible tattoo on me or something?"

John shifts under him at the response, curiosity radiating from him as Dean converses with something he can't see.

"You both, but your have a geas from the Queens. _Both_ Queens. It is...unusual."

"Curiosity killed the cat, you know."

The demi fae laughs. "As do my friends."

The way she says it, Dean momentarily feels sorry for felines before remembering exactly how many times he himself had been attacked by them. Without the ability to see, he can only _feel_ the blood dripping down his chest from where the pain in his muscles radiates. He pulls an arm free from his dad's uncharacteristic grasp and brushes past the torn fabric of his t-shirt to the wound below.

He hisses in pain as soon as his fingers make contact. "What the _hell_ did you do to me?"

"Dean," his dad speaks into his ear, voice low and tense, "what did you see?"

"Yes, pet, what did you see when I drank your power? Did you see the fae you killed?" The demi fae, an enemy of the fae who treat their kind with such disrespect, they've grown angry and hungry for the blood of fae or any creature that might quench their thirst, seems angered by such an idea.

Dean's instantly on guard, defensive. "Who says I killed a fae?"

"I can taste it," the demi fae licks her lips. What Dean thought was natural lipstick is only his blood coating pale pink lips. "And see it. How could you kill one of them and make an agreement with their Queens, a geas?"

"Why? Looking to be absolved for attacking me?"

The demi fae flies in close to his nose, so close, he can feel her Glamour melting into his skin. It gives off a momentary glow, spreading through his arms and hands; for the first time in over a week, Dean can see his own body, take stock of his injuries, and _fuck, _did he really resemble an accident victim that well? No wonder his dad's been alternating between the John he's used to and the one he remembers from his childhood, before everything became complicated and his hands developed calluses from hours of target practice holding a handgun; when he _needed_ to care for his children, even if it was only an illusion, or risk losing them.

It saddens Dean, his need for such attention, even after all these years. Such affection is cold, hard evidence that, at times, his family loves him just the way he cares for them. Consider it a depressing absolution, one that comes and goes and gives him hope for a few years before the memory fades and he forgets just exactly how it feels to be protected.

And that's what his dad's doing at the moment, with his thick arms wrapped around Dean from behind, supporting his weight as Dean tries to push past the dizziness accompanying his open wound. The bleeding's stopped, blood thickened under the surface, but he feels no better.

"I do not need such a thing from the Queens of fae. They took our kingdoms because of their _size_, not their power. We are just as powerful as they. Do not insult my kind by believing we _answer_ to such tricksy and deceptive creatures." The demi fae huffs, then flies back; the glow across Dean's skin fades until all he sees is the Glamour put in place by watchful demi fae. The wound isn't the only hole he feels; the loss of personal identity hits him hard -- why, as part fae, does he not have any Glamour of his own?

"They have not told you everything," she continues, anger fading from her voice. "They tricked you into drinking of our world, pet. Do you feel it when you stay away too long?"

Dean hesitates. "Yes."

"It will kill you unless they remove it. It will be hard. I tasted the power when I drank of you, and took some of it. Be wary, pet. Be watchful at all times. Not all is as you believe."

"I had the feeling."

She smiles. "It is the fae in you. Listen to it. Don't let them use you."

"What about Hall? Isn't he, you know, killing everything in sight?"

"Yes. But why? Doesn't a human need motive for such horrible acts? Would they not be righteous in his mind?"

Dean nods. It is a topic he knows much about; how something terrible in the past can color the world in different shades. Like rose colored glasses make everything seem perfect, tragedy marks the world black and white, right and wrong. Morality is subjective to experience.

The demi fae doesn't wait for his answer, and Dean figures she doesn't have to; her "attack" reminded him of his own painting of the Unseelie, showing him what those he's now allied himself with have done to him. Solutions should never come from those who have wronged you, not in the way he's been tortured, and as the demi fae joins the others and disappears into a bright enclave of golden light, Dean smiles.

Not everything is as it seems in this world, nor any other.

John shifts behind him, his arms relaxing as Dean moves to stand. "What did she say?"

"What I needed to hear to find Hall."

--

John doesn't like the new arrangement, but accepts it as his son's way of proving his worth in the face of adversity. And of all the lessons he's taught his sons, stepping up even when everything's working against you has been the most important. All the research and experience in the world won't help one bit if the will isn't there to back it up, and over the last few days, Dean's proven the strength of his convictions.

While students and leisure patrons search the library archives for stories on their hobbies or relatives, John types in 'Stewart Hall' and hits enter. There isn't much to go on; Dean's only said something happened to Hall in the past, like them, that set him off in this direction, and he wants to know exactly what it is before he faces the man to exchange Hall's life for Dean's sight.

"Who knows what the real motive is for those Queens. First, they insult us after," -- Dean had motioned to himself, as if that explained everything -- "then, they're all nice and giving us what we want. Maybe Hall's not as bad as we thought."

A valid point, but John wonders if discovering the secrets of Hall's past will change Dean's mind about honoring the geas upon his head.

The search results come up, a long list of all the Stewart Halls in the country and their various contributions to society. Dean leans in close, head almost resting on his shoulder -- touch and sound have changed the dynamics of their relationship, the former taking longer for John to adjust to after years of being a teacher, not a father.

"What does it say?"

His voice booms in John's ear, not from volume, but proximity.

"Hall's a common last name."

"Aaron said he's young, right? What if it's something that happened recently?" Dean suggests. "Or," he continues, thinking out loud, "he just found out what happened. You know, figured it out."

"That doesn't restrict the search much, Dean," John grumbles, highlighting the terms in the text box.

Contemplation. "He's going after fae, right? All of them. So, what if all he knows is that magic was involved? Don't most people think magic and faeries go together? Well, witches, too, but you can't mistake them for fae; just one look and you'd know."

John can't help but agree. An encounter with an enclave of witches -- hags, really, from the Old Country -- four years prior flickers in his mind, pulling up images of mutilated faces and hair like straw. No, witches capable of doing such damage as to prompt a man to such violence could never be mistaken for a fae.

"What we need to figure out," Dean says, continuing, "is what kind of thing a dumbshit newspaper reporter would mistake for something weird."

The words cause John to whip his head around, facing Dean just over his shoulder. The eyes can't see -- just look off into space -- but there's thought behind the phrasing. He can't tell if Dean's grasping for full understanding, or just incredibly lucky, but it worries him all the same. Searching for the creature responsible for Mary's death has always been their ultimate goal, these smaller jobs simply practice runs, but the father in John continues to protect his sons from the worst of it. From all the deaths since Mary's, from his own obsession.

Secretly, he worries Dean will leave him once he discovers his father's obsession has become more important than him.

But he's safe, for now. Without sight, Dean doesn't see the expression playing on John's face, and continues to think through things. It's a crutch he can't possibly grow to depend on, and yet...

No.

They will find a solution, a way out of all of this, and continue on the hunt.

While John has an idea of what sorts of events are often mistaken for odd, unexplainable accidents, his come from flames and dying children, not unseen magic. Search terms are guesses, at best, depending on lines of code and keywords strung together -- it's a mixture as delicate as poultices made to ward off spirits, each ingredient carefully measured out.

"Try his name with accident. Or murder. Something violent, right? You don't go out to buy silver bullets out of the blue unless it was something really bad." Dean grumbles and runs a hand over his face. "Damnit. I'm no good at this stuff. Give me people to talk to, maybe. At least they're easier to read."

"We have to accept the possibility that whatever happened to Hall was never reported in the paper, son. Not in a paper we can search from here."

"Great." The prospect of searching through his dad dwindling, Dean leans back in his chair, balancing it precociously on the back two legs. "Can we get to birth records? Find out where this guy's from?"

"Maybe. But there are hundreds of people with the same name. It'd take days to look through them all."

"We know he's, what? Mid-thirties?"

"Dean..." John starts.

The chair snaps forward with a thud. Frustration radiates from Dean just as strongly as his exhaustion, both lining his face with conflicting emotions. He lays his arms across his knees, head hanging.

"You're always saying I just rush into things. I'm no good at the pre-hunt stuff; you know that." Dean pauses, and when he lifts his head, something new is written in those eyes, breaking through whatever spell's been put into them. Conflict. "But what if this guy's not as bad as everyone says. Just a normal guy trying to find -- " He breaks off, shakes his head.

"Find what, Dean?"

"Whatever hurt his family. His friend. Hell, his damn dog. This isn't something you just 'get into;' everyone hunts for a reason, and it's usually a pretty good one."

Dean sees people where John and Sam see fact or history. Words on the page jump out to his eldest son, forming a picture in his mind. And for the most part, it works in his favor, allowing Dean to figure out the motivations of whatever they're hunting. Now, it's only working to hold him back. John pushes back from the computer and swivels in his chair.

"Maybe we're looking at the wrong things," he tries. That look of despair, or conflict -- whatever it may be -- eats away at him. He may not be up for father of the year anytime soon, but he does try to appease his sons when possible.

"Such as?"

The answer's staring him back in the face, and John can't believe he hasn't thought of it until now. "His Sight."

"How's that help?" says Dean.

"He's not experienced, right? You think someone that green could've gotten out of a fae's lair without help?"

"You're saying it was given to him."

John nods. "If they hadn't, he wouldn't be prancing around killing every fae in sight. He'd be hiding."

"Or making deals with people. Shit, what if he has?" Dean asks, leaning back in his chair. "We don't know that he _hasn't_. They were going to kill me; what if they're meaning to kill him, and just having a little fun with me on the way?"

"You think they were looking for him and found you instead."

Dean nods. "Yeah. I mean, they didn't have much to go on, right? Est - she wasn't scared like the others, like she _knew_ beforehand there was someone out there who could see through 'em." He raises his head, eyes scanning the room in patterns derived from looking for sounds, and glances off to the right -- off into memory. "How much of a weird coincidence is all of this?"

John doesn't answer, doesn't need to. Both know the odds of this all being some random chance occurrence are pretty low; the cover story so easy conceived by John was only an extension of the truth he himself believed -- that Hall, through all his exploits, had marked all humans with the Sight as targets, even those who had no idea they had the gift.

Though at this point, John sees it as a curse.

--

Two hours after leaving the demi-fae and her blood-covered lips, the fever returns in full force; another half-hour passes before Dean feels the world tilt and sway beneath him. John is occupied with the computer and thick yellow phone books, his cell phone, the PO box in Kansas registered as his address, and the $40 a month in pre-paid minutes all proving their worth.

There are approximately 60 Halls in the state, another 40 in Virginia, and John's steadily working his way though each one, hoping to find a relative, _someone_ who can point them in the right direction.

They work in tandem, John looking up the numbers and dialing the phone, Dean making the calls. Between them, there is only John's phone -- Dean has never asked for one, and doesn't feel he'd need one; why should he, if he's always with his dad?

It's cumbersome work, and after ten minutes of dialing the phone and handing it off, Dean forgetting the first name or initial given in the phone book, John takes over the task. Dean can listen, though, and when he feels the heat from the fever rise from his toes to creep up his neck, up his face, he leans his head on a hand and closes his eyes.

There's little difference than what he tells his mind. Closed eyes means rest, open is awake. He feels the change, but it takes his mind a moment to realize his eyes are no longer open.

That scares him.

His dad cycles through questions like a scratched record; the needle skips with each melody of the phone being dialed, catching in the same worn groove as soon as someone answers on the other end.

After a few calls, the steady rhythm becomes hypnotic, and Dean begins to float. High above everything, he rises until he's flying through a cloud-dotted sky with the same unraveling lace wings of the demi-fae.

New England stretched below him, a quilt of browns and greens with long, winding snakes of grey cutting through at odd angles and impossible curves. Oddly, he feels no fear. The air up here is cooler, brushing against his boiling skin.

The daredevil in him takes over. Dean looks up and feels the air rush past him as he climbs higher and higher. Perhaps if he flies high enough, he'll find his own kind of Utopia awaiting him. Or maybe, just maybe, his wings were made by Paracleses' son.

Dean thinks these thoughts, but still continues up.

Higher and higher.

The sun looms closer but the air has a frothy chill to it. The change in temperature feels so nice, Dean becomes greedy and quickens his pace.

A thread dangles before his face. Annoyed, Dean swats it away. It spins and drifts, but not too far. As he climbs, it becomes longer until, just where Dean can see an oasis of ice and peace, the wings on his back unravel completely. Threadbare, they no longer can hold his weight.

Dean tumbles through the air. The ground rushes up to greet him, welcome him back, and he cries out at the moment of impact --

And opens his eyes.

The blank, oppressive absence of light and color and sight clues Dean into his return to the waking world. The loss of sight found in his dream -- or was it a nightmare? -- is jarring, and he doesn't know how much longer he can take the lingering disappointment.

Under him is solid ground. Confused, he feels around. It w_as_ only a dream, right?

Then why is he on the ground?

Background noises come into sharp focus -- one moment, all he hears are muted, vague sounds, the next, voices are shouting at him all at once; he resists the reflexive urge to cover his ears.

"Everything's fine," he can hear his dad say from somewhere nearby. "My son's been fighting a cold for the last week." A pause. The other voice is too foreign for him to even care to decode. "No, don't worry. We were finished, anyway. But thank you."

A hand grabs his arm and Dean tries to pull away.

"Let's get out of here, Ace. What did I tell you about making a scene?" John speaks loud and near Dean's ear; he hears a booming, amplified voice and could swear his head's about to explode.

John hauls him to his feet.

--

The Impala roars through light traffic on Interstate 95, heading north. The sun has already set; deep blue fades to black and streetlamps come on at the same time as the stars. Clouds dot the night sky and play a game of hide and seek with the moon. When it hides, only pale white headlights illuminate the road -- John can only see what's immediately in front of him; the future is a swarming black mass of unpredictability, but at least he's on the right road.

Beside him, Dean slumbers in the reclined passenger seat, twisted up and around in a position only he could consider comfortable. Every so often, he'll shift or snore or let out a deep sigh of his soul. They work to remind John he's not alone in the physical realm.

As for the spiritual one, he's on his own.

He takes into stock the past few weeks. Dean's come a long way from the broken figure John rescued from a phone booth on the side of the highway. Bruises have faded from blue and purple to the sickly looking green and tinged yellow, and become less sensitive to touch. Many of the more shallow cuts no longer dig into his skin. They now are only raised lines of pink, healing skin. The deeper ones are coming along, infection's no longer a concern. And thanks to the aid of the Seelie Queen, the broken arm lays comfortably healed at Dean's side.

They've been lucky. John should have taken Dean to the hospital and let them take care of him. A visit would have a least reduced the scars Dean will wear around as an inerasable reminder of his father's many failures.

John risks a glance away from the road at Dean. No, the fever seems to be the only hindrance.

Aside from the blindness, that is.

Cracked and broken ribs can't be helped. Six to eight weeks, and it's only been around three. The stiffness remains, John knows that from personal experience, but for the most part, they're only a mild discomfort.

Still, Dean shouldn't push himself too hard --

-- John chuckles at the idea of _that_ ever happening.

As a soldier, John's impressed with Dean; as a father, he's scared shitless. Blindness isn't something you bounce back from. You can't compensate and continue on the way you had before.

With a growl, John grasps the steering wheel tighter, shifting hands back and forth with the _rick-rack_ of skin rubbing leather. Damnit, there _were_ only two solutions, and neither are win-win.

Putting his son somewhere safe, where he could be properly looked after, would only save him physically. Such a move, seen as abandonment by the overly-attached Dean would kill him in spirit -- John's sure of that. Experiencing the death of his mother at such a young, impressionable age made Dean petrified of not only becoming attached to anyone, but of those he _did_ leaving him.

The psychologist sent over after Mary's funeral had termed it, so aptly, Attachment Disorder. 'He'll pull back one day,' she told John. 'Tell himself he couldn't care less if he was left alone. But he will. And he'll do anything to please you and his little brother just to keep you around.'

John had seen the changes, watched as Dean slowly slipped on a mask to protect himself from true rejection. At times, this grown, jaded Dean seems like a stranger when compared to the boy he used to hoist onto his shoulder while Mary laughed nearby.

But taking Dean with him would only slow him down. Wasn't his obsessive hunt for Mary's killer the root of all this? If only _he_ hadn't started pulling away, started excluding Dean --

John flicks on the radio. The past cannot be changed -- what was that prayer Pastor Jim taught him when he refused to get professional help for his drinking? _God, grant me the serenity..._ or something like that. From his understanding, you have to realize some things in life are outside your control.

There is only one person who could save both Dean's soul and John's hunt.

And the only way Dean would _truly_ seek out his brother is if he was left alone. Abandoned.

Fuck. Dean would probably understand. Would say John had a good reason. Would -- _God damnit_ -- welcome him back with open fucking arms.

John Winchester could be a selfish, cruel, manipulative bastard when it served his purpose.

But when it came to Dean, damaged, stunted, _broken_ Dean, it was just so _easy_.

And John hates himself for using his son's fears against him time after time ever since he lost his mother.


	12. Part 2, Chapter 6

I was going to wait a little bit to post this, but in light of the results of run-off voting and not making it to the next round, I figured I'd post earlier to reward those who _are_ reading, as well as tip the scales in the positive direction. I'm flattered to have even been nominated, but I can't say that I'm not affected. Human nature dictates that people don't take rejection too well. But the show must go on, and I'm having a blast writing and reading all the wonderful things you all have to say.

Also, I cannot believe how many reviews I've gotten. The most I've ever gotten EVER was 90. I think I'm pretty close to that...and if I cross 100...well, look for the crazy girl dancing in the streets -- that will be me.

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**These Crimes of Illusion  
**_Chapter 2.6_

Dean wakes to the smell of coffee.

Sweet, smooth, caffeinated coffee.

He's no fool. Ever since he was old enough to hunt, and Sam old enough to talk, Dean's had a good sense of when he's about to be played. For a person who tries to lock away most of his thoughts and emotions, there are a few close to the surface his dad and brother have picked up on. They're the kind that are permanent; no matter how much he tries, Dean will never be able to change those parts of who he is.

Instead, he tells himself they don't mean to do what they do, that they are only acting in his best interest.

When his dad or Sam give him something he wants for no reason, the words from a Moody Blues song pop into his head like some kind of preemptive warning system, _it's not the way that you say it when you do those things to me, it's more the way that you say it when you tell me what will be._

His dad actually going and getting him some coffee sets off the alarm.

Fuck. Now it's a waiting game.

"Good, you're awake," his dad remarks from the direction of the sweet coffee aroma's source.

Like so many times before, Dean plays dumb. "Is that coffee I smell?" he asks instead of reaching out and grabbing his dad, shaking him while shouting, _what the fuck are you going to do to me this time?_

"Figured you need some after all that sleep."

They're stopped -- Dean can smell gas vapors past the coffee, hear cars and music and the electric _whir_ of power tools and clicks of socket wrenches. A truck stop or gas station -- without sight, that's as far as he can narrow it down. There are a lot of people around, and the heat of the sun bakes his legs through well-worn jeans; late morning is his best guess at time of day.

Reaching for the handle, Dean feels a soft, cool breeze pass through the open windows. He pushes open the door with a creak of old but classic hinges and gets out of the car.

"Man," he starts, stretching his arms above his head with a yawn, "how long was I out?"

A cup taps his hand, and he opens it to take the peace offering for crimes yet to be committed. The coffee is just as good as he remembers it to be, if not better. It cascades down his throat in a tidal wave of caffeine and sugar.

"Has to be fourteen hours or so, since we left the library in Pikford," John replies. "Feeling okay?"

Dean shrugs. "Sun's too hot. Where are we?"

"Halfway between Pittsburg and Arlington."

"Virginia? What the hell's in Virginia?"

"Stewart Hall's aunt and uncle," John says. "Found them while calling around."

They're still on Hall's trail, and Dean feels himself flood with relief. Whatever's coming will wait until after Hall's dead.

"What'dya tell them?" he asks a little more loosely than a moment ago. Heat radiates from his skin, and it isn't because of the sun; he leans against the car, hoping the metal still holds coolness left over from the night drive.

It doesn't. Dean leans against it anyway.

"Missing persons. We want to run a piece on him."

"People will tell anything to reporters," Dean remarks with a sip of coffee. It hits his stomach hard, but he doesn't show it. Takes little sips.

"Part of that 15 minutes of fame," his dad comments lightly. "Everybody wants their story in the paper."

"Too bad for them. How far?"

John takes a moment to calculate. "Another three hours, maybe four. We'll get there around late afternoon."

"How'd you know you'd find them around here, anyway?" Dean asks. Another small sip. His stomach churns with discontent.

"From what I've heard, he started out here before Caleb met him."

"Any more info you're not letting me in on?" Dean laughs. John doesn't say anything, and Dean can hear his footsteps round the hood, the driver's side door squeak open. Dean ducks his head, then looks up for a second to let sunshine sprinkle on his face. Great. He'd hit a nerve, which meant the next four hours were going to be filled with crappy radio stations and silence between the them.

"Guess you do, huh, dad," Dean mutters. He gets back into the car and pours most of his coffee onto the pavement beside it before closing the door.

So much for _that_.

--

The scenery doesn't change much between Pennsylvania and Virginia; the Appalachian Mountains remain to the right, and between spurts of towns there is nothing but dense forests on either side of the two lane highway. The sun arches high above, casting bright rays through the trees that filters through to pattern the hood. They rise up the windshield and over John's face. He's thankful for the sunglasses he picked up at the last gas station; the glare reflecting off the old, weathered blacktop is strong even through the dark lenses.

Signs start counting down the miles to Alexandria and Washington D.C., and more cars join the Impala as a second lane appears beside it. John's uncomfortable in large cities, ever since beginning his hunt -- sure, large urban areas lend themselves to anonymity, but they're so _impersonal_.

Small towns are more his pace, which is why, after marrying Mary, the couple moved out of Kansas City to Lawrence, preferring the medium-sized Midwestern suburb to the city.

The Halls he'd found live in a suburb of Alexandria, on one of those perfect, tree-lined streets with immaculate lawns and matching white fences. It was the kind of place where well-to-do families lived, children playing on swing sets with fathers in polo shirts and pressed khakis and mothers wear sundresses while tending to toddlers.

He'd had that dream, once. Not on the salary of a mechanic, no, but in the future, when they'd saved enough to get a larger house with that fence. And they had, two months before Sam was born. The blue house with a backyard and the tree in front with a tire swing John made with an old tire salvaged from work.

Driving down the Hall's street reminded John of all this, of his dream lost too soon in a blazing fire. The aching hold in his heart flares up but he knocks it down, back, away. He isn't that man anymore -- hell, he's not even a man, at least not fully, and things like him don't live on tree-lined avenues with 1.5 kids and a golden retriever.

Where _do_ they live?

He's caught between two worlds, neither accepting of him -- he looks at Dean in the passenger seat -- _them_ in either. For the first time, John's relieved Sam left when he did; one of them should be able to live a normal life. And while he still worries for his youngest's safety, John has to believe the training he gave both his sons will be enough. Has to.

Dean groans. "Suburbs. How much more cookie-cutter can you get?"

The comment peels John from his mental soliloquy, and the Impala slows so he can better read the addresses in gold numbers above sprawling three-car garages.

"Not everyone in the suburbs is stuck up. Some people work hard to get nice places for their kids," he drawls almost defensively.

"Boring kids. Playing on swing sets and selling lemonade for a nickel."

"And you wouldn't want that instead of this?"

"Naw," Dean says with a bit of a smirk. "Hunting shit is fun. Dangerous, but fun. Plus, I'm damn good at it."

John's voice is low as he parks the car. "You know, this isn't what I wanted for you boys. Got myself a nice house in a good city, found a steady job. You two were going to go to college, settle down..." he trails off, shaking his head.

"Yeah," Dean breathes. "I know. When life kicks your ass, it kicks it _hard._"

John smiles at that. Leave it to Dean to take a perfectly good sentiment and foul it up with language.

"You up for this?"

"Don't bullshit me," Dean shoots. "And don't ask again, okay, dad? I'm ready. I'm better. Let's do this."

John nods. He shouldn't have to ask. Dean's always been up for anything. Even as a kid, when he was old enough to understand what his dad was up to, he'd throw himself in wholeheartedly. Sick or injured, he'd give it his all, often hiding his malady so as to not be 'benched,' as Dean called being pulled off a hunt.

He's learned to look for whatever Dean hides under a slick smile and quick wit and compensate for the worst. Ice blue eyes stare off to the right, angled more towards the steering wheel than John, focused on a world John wants nothing to do with unless it's to hunt.

In this world, Dean's condition is understandable, hell, worthy of thinly veiled pity passed off as sympathy, but empathy doesn't negate feelings of unease.

Bright sunlight hits John; he blinks furiously while his eyes adjust before leaning across the front seat to put his sunglasses on Dean.

"What am I, five?" Dean scowls, yanking the glasses from John's grasp. "I think I can manage."

_I'm not completely helpless_.

"We want the Halls to feel comfortable around us so we can get the whole story."

"And not what they've probably prepared. Fame and lies, huh?"

"Something like that."

Dean nods, then stops short. "I make you uncomfortable?"

"You're my son."

But Dean doesn't take the glasses off again, even when they're through with the Halls.

--

Per usual, John takes the lead.

Which isn't to say Dean doesn't know all the steps. Just that John has more experience and years, two things people tend to react to with respect and honesty. Dean doesn't fit the profile of someone particularly trustworthy; most judge based on appearance, and while he holds many secrets and can be understanding when need be, he often isn't given a chance.

So he stands to the side, hand hovering near his dad's elbow, and listens to the sounds of a school bus chugging away down the street as kids get home from school. They're all laughs and piercing screams many grow out of at eleven or twelve, turning introverted and moody. God, he can see Sam at that age --

Screw it. The kid left for college without much in the way of a goodbye and doesn't answer his fucking phone. What great parents he and dad made -- Sam couldn't leave fast enough.

Focus on the task; it keeps his mind from wandering to places he'd rather avoid.

"Are there blind reporters?" he asks, turning to where he _thinks_ his dad stands -- the touch of an elbow means little when you find out your gaze has been off for weeks and hell, he should have known; blind people always look funny, like they're privy to some inside joke. There's a vast difference between seeing and being. Which stage is acceptance? Has he been grieving the loss of his sight all this time?

"Could be," John intones.

"Something to find out," Dean says. Out of curiosity or doubt -- he doesn't care. Task at hand.

Soft footsteps grow louder, and the sweet floral scent of lilacs wafts through the air as hinges creak and slide open the front door. Soft hands rest against wood; beyond, there's the steady hum of central air. On the porch, the air is slick and heavy, sticky with summer ice cream dreams, and if Dean could see, he'd flirt his way inside before introductions were made.

He's losing himself and doesn't know how to stop it.

Aside from killing the nephew of the woman at the door, but he'll lose as much doing that as any man can.

"Can I help you?" she asks. Her voice is thick with pristine boarding schools and old, dirty money. It snubs its nose at them, says they're not good enough to be standing at her door. When Dean speaks poorly about the suburbs, it's these people he's commenting on, those who feel entitled to everything, to the protection of men like them.

If John's intimidated, he doesn't betray it with the deep drawl of his Southern voice. "I'm John Hidel. We spoke on the phone?"

"The reporter, yes, yes." There's a pregnant pause of judgment, and the heat of her sharp gaze falls on Dean.

He's thankful for the sunglasses; his personal shield.

They can't keep out her sour empathy. "And you, there, are you his partner?"

"His shadow. Can't do much writing, unfortunately," Dean tries with a smile. "I'm Dean," -- and he breaks off, uncertain of the alias his dad fed her over the phone.

"Dean Riddell. Fresh meat; he'll be assisting me," John steps in.

"Fantastic," she says. "Lydia Hall. Please, come in."

John's elbow rocks into Dean's arm, sharp angles that jars him into action. He grabs hold and steps into the cool house, stumbling over the step plate.

"Oh, dear. Watch the foyer; there's a step down," Lydia almost coos. The sugar sweetness grates against Dean's independent nature, and, like so many times since losing a piece of himself, he bites his bottom lip and concedes.

God _damn_, they'd better find this Hall character, because Dean is _not_ going to spend the rest of his life like this.

"Thanks," he grits out.

He first notices 'Them' halfway down a forever hallway, hand still brushing against his dad's arm -- close contact, a solid touch, is something he fears he wouldn't be able to recover from. Specs of golden light floating like the fireflies he and Sam used to chase for hours on the wrong side of midnight, lightening caught in the tails of buzzing insects.

They fly around inside Lydia Hall's home leaving jets of sparkling light in their flight, reminding Dean of his name glowing on the cracked blacktop as he smeared a captured firefly across the rough surface. Like his name outside their home in Missouri, the trail these specks leave is evanescent, fleeting.

His guide leads them through a tangled web of fading magic; it sticks to his skin in thick blotches, catching on him in permanent rashes of glitter.

Dean frowns; glitter and any comparative form belongs on pretty girls in the corners of bars where the low light can selectively shine upon the tiny mirrors, and not him. He tries to brush it off without adding crazy to his blind label, swatting at his arms until his fingers are covered. It's futile, and he turns to his left to make a hushed comment --

-- and notices it's sticking to his dad.

While gold is certainly not John's color, the growing mass of metallic glitter allows Dean to see a general outline of his dad next to him; a spattering peppers his hair, trails down his nose. Dean considers making that comment -- something including faerie dust and Cinderella -- but remains quiet.

Lydia starts talking again; he catches that small intake of breath people take before speaking.

"Please, have a seat. Can I get either of you anything?"

"No, we're fine," John says for both.

The couch is plush and soft, smells like lemon cleaner and fabric softener. Dean's clothes smelled like that once, and the scent pulls forth uninvited memories.

John takes a seat next to him, Lydia across.

"You said on the phone you had some questions about Stewart. His disappearance doesn't surprise me, not after, well," -- Lydia pauses, takes a breath, and prepares to exhale gossip -- "You _do_ know what happened to his sister, don't you?"

Her opening -- neither Winchester moves to stem her flow. Dean imagines John's shaking his head.

"It happened about six years ago. Marjorie -- that's my niece -- met a boy. He was," Lydia hesitates, and Dean can hear the comparison to himself in the space -- "less than favorable. My sister told her the relationship had to end. It wasn't an unreasonable request; Marjorie was raised to have higher standards."

Dean watches the web of magic in Lydia's living room. _Something isn't right..._

"Whatever happened, I don't know the specifics. Just that Marjorie and this boy disappeared. In all likelihood, they simply ran away together."

"Stewart didn't accept that as an explanation?" John infers.

Lydia tsks, laughing politely. "He began ranting and raving that Marjorie was kidnapped, that -- and please excuse my sister and her husband, they're good parents."

"Of course," John speaks lines from a play they can watch, but not act in.

"He _claimed_ the boy Marjorie was seeing was, well, a faerie."

Dean jumps in, wanting a line or two. "Where did he get such an idea?" The specks jump and quiver in the air.

"Who knows? Where _do_ kids get these ideas from these days? When I was growing up, running off with a boy was humiliating. Now, kids think it romantic."

"Who knows, indeed," John says, the words sounding foreign to Dean. The odd things John has to worry about make the idea of Marjorie running off with a boy sound _tame_. "And Stewart? He went after them?"

"Oh, not immediately. He began reading questionable books and leaving for days at a time, coming home tired and...altered."

To women like this, living in immaculate houses that smell of fresh white cleanliness and aged, antique treasures to be look at but not touched, altered could mean any variety of things. Living outside the carefully constructed walls encircling not only the physical home, but those inside it, was a cause of concern, an error made not by plastic parents who never seemed human, bit wayward children under the influence of sinister forces.

Lydia, in her voice, had certain influences in her mind of the non-human variety her mouth catching on the word with disdain.

"You thought he was on drugs?" Dean asks. He knows her eyes slide over to him, pity the only thing between him and harsh judgment as another one of those unacceptable influences. He doesn't take it personally; Lydia, like so many others he's encountered over the years, is not accepting of anyone who can't trace their schooling back to a prestigious boarding school or their lineage to a soldier in the Revolutionary War.

He may have one, but not in this persona.

Lydia signs, false sympathy harboring disappointment. "Both my sister and I approached him about it, but Stewart denied everything. Personally, I believe he was simply taking refuge in dangerous activities. He and Marjorie were close, and for her to just run off like that..."

"Did you and your sister make efforts to find Marjorie?" John says. "Outside of the police, of course."

Lydia reacts to his addendum with a lightening of spirits; she shifts in her chair to sit up straighter.

"Yes, yes. We couldn't involve the police, you know. How would it look?"

How, indeed. While Dean's scope of experience often contained such events, those where police interference would be preferred if not for how things would look, he can't imagine Lydia hiding assault rifles and unregistered handguns in her basement -- or anywhere else investigators might look. No, in this case, bringing in any outsiders would only increase the possibility of their friends at the Country Club finding out.

"So why talk to us?" Dean thinks aloud. His eyes wander to the floating specks, how they migrate in a pattern reflecting a ray of sunlight, and he imagines a window nearby catching the last gifts of the falling sun.

Other than the hum of the air conditioner, the house is quiet. It's peaceful, being someplace where he doesn't need to hop from sound to sound; he can focus on the _swish_ of fabric brushing against stiff, rough upholstery. Beside him, John is a statue except for his hands, which alternate between gesturing in the air and sitting clasped. He's leaning forward, elbows on knees -- his weight on the couch is shifted forward, tilting the couch they share ever-so-slightly.

Dean rubs his hand over the upholstery on the couch, over hills and valleys; fingers trace the floral pattern embroidered into the heavy material and frowns. Rich suburbs. Their need to disguise things reminds him of Glamour and -- fuck, where is there magic _here_?

"Oh," Lydia answers after a great pause -- of was it small, as Dean's lost measure of time. Another piece falling from the puzzle making up _him_. "This all happened six years ago, at least. Everyone knows our dirty little secret, now."

John moves, leans back a bit to sit up straight -- he's as surprised as Dean.

"I was under the impression Stewart only disappeared recently," he remarks in a rush of breath bordering on disappointment.

"Stewart, yes. Let me tell you all the details; he's a disturbed boy, and we just want to help him," Lydia replies. She launches into her take on the days before his disappearance, of how he rambled on about fae and shadows and the plot to take Marjorie into their world. The longer she speaks, the more Dean's convinced Marjorie's elopement drove her brother to insanity -- and if someone so normal dove into Dean's world when he hit the breaking point, did that mean Dean could turn normal in a few years when the absence of his brother became too much?

And, when normal, would Sam finally accept him?

--

Neon red filters through where blinds are missing, casting strips of bright light on the floor and walls in neat lines that twist and turn like the room. It mingles with dingy yellow lamplight to make the entire motel room look singed with nicotine and burning cigarettes.

In other words, like home.

With a clang of plastic jumping, John drops their bags in the dresser next to an ashtray. One night stops weren't in his MO, but midnight drives are beginning to take their toll on him; he's used to a few hours' sleep when Dean took over, running a Chinese Fire Drill at an intersection with no cars. Stopping when night awoke hadn't happened since Sam was ten and Dean old enough to drive, if not in the eyes of the law, in those of his father.

Dean knocks his shins on the edge of a bed and bends slightly, hands out to feel the bedspread. He finds the edges, and with one hand still on the bed, turns around slowly -- uncertain -- and takes a seat. There's no more than two feet between them, but John feels miles from his oldest son.

The sunglasses reflect back John's face -- tired eyes, four or five days of growth -- and he considers asking Dean to take them off again, but decides to let Dean pout behind them a little longer.

He doesn't like how comfortable Dean's becoming, how acclimated to his condition he seems.

Previous doubts he once felt must be going through Dean's mind now pass through his.

"Sorry, man," Dean says, frowning.

"For what?"

"You've gotta be tired, having to look out for both of us all the time. Just, yeah. Oh, hell, I'm no good at this shit. You know what I mean."

"How are you feeling?"

"I just say you've gotta be wiped from watching over me, and you ask that? Take a clue, dad, and give me some space."

John doesn't move; figures what Dean can't see is outside his inner realm, that he can give Dean space without physically moving away.

"You haven't moved," Dean comments, voice low and stuck in the back of his throat. "Just 'cause I can't see doesn't mean I'm some little kid you can trick."

There are stages to Dean, phases he progresses through when bothered enough to lash out. Usually, his frustration is taken out on the subject of their hunt. There's passion and drive under that aloof exterior, two traits Mary passed to both her sons.

"We're going to find Hall, Dean," says John. He ignores Dean's scoff and moves to unpack supplies -- salt and iron and guns. He criss-crosses the room and sets each item in the same places he does in each hotel room they've stayed in. Salt at the windows and doors. Guns under the pillows, in the nightstand next to the Gideon Bible.

He's pretending Dean isn't sitting on the bed in sunglasses, fuming silently and thinking. Ever since Dean came out of his shocked shell a few months after -- after the fire -- John, and everyone else, really, had been effectively shut out of the inner workings of Dean. He's a walking mystery wrapped in leather, a slick grin, and confident swagger. Cool on the outside but boiling lava sliding under the surface.

They dance around each other, Dean bumbling as he asserts his ability to do things without burdening his father, John fluidly removing obstructions as he pulls out his journal containing notes from their visit with Lydia Hall.

When John bumps into Dean to keep him from knocking into the bathroom doorway, something crackles in the air, followed by the snapping of a string of fate.

"Damnit, Dad," shouts Dean. "First, you want nothing to do with me, then you're smothering me. Make up your mind already, cause I'm sick of you going from hot to cold."

"Excuse me?" the soldier in John snaps back.

Dean recoils, back pressing into the frame he narrowly avoided.

The small step shows weakness to be fed on.

"No, keep going. I know I haven't been the best father, but I _am_ your father, and you treat me with respect. I've let you slide, but hell, Dean, this self crap's going to stop _now_, you understand me? You keep acting like everything's fine and it _isn't_. I'm trying to help -- to make up for letting this happen to you."

He waits for a reaction -- even yelling -- but gets nothing. The sunglasses shield Dean's eyes and keep John from gleaming underlying emotions behind the blue eyes once hazel from Mary's side of the family.

Dean remains folded in, jumpy at John's shouts. He's come far since escaping the Unseelie, but those memories are still strong, still haunt him.

"It's not your fault," he finally says. "I didn't have to go on that walk, okay? _I_ decided to leave -- you didn't make me do anything. So stop blaming yourself."

"Doesn't work that way, son. I'm your father."

"Don't feel you owe me anything -- "

"Damnit, Dean, I don't _need_ a reason to look after you; it's what parents do."

"Normal parents," mutters Dean. He relaxes against the doorframe, shifts his feet on the orange shag carpet. The comment is something John expects from Sam during one of their infamously loud arguments, but not Dean. Not obedient, respectful Dean.

It makes John's blood boil. He crosses the space between them with two large, anger-filled steps and speaks inches from Dean's face.

"I've done the best I could, Dean. So give me this and stop your fucking complaining. You want normal, then here it is. As normal as you're going to get."

Dean shrinks. "Yes, sir."

"Good."

His son hangs his head and sags. John resists the urge to kiss his forehead to make it all better because he knows it won't work.

No matter how much he wishes it could.


	13. Part 2, Chapter 7

We're almost there; there are 2 chapters and a short epilogue left of this story.

I want to say thank you to everyone who's reading, and give hugs to my reviewers. I'm sorry I can't reply to each one personally as I do on LJ, but a.) I'm from the old school, before allowed us to reply to reviews, and b.) believe you all want me writing instead of spending time replying to feedback. I've finished the first chapter of the sequel -- now I just have to keep up this momentum.

And, as I'm precariously close to 100 reviews -- thank you all for making a humble fanfic writer very, very happy. ;)

* * *

**These Crimes of Illusion**  
_Chapter 2.7_

Days are spent asleep, thick, unraveling curtains pulled against invading sunlight. An A/C unit rattles in the window frame, back and forth; it hits the glass, struggling to cool the room. Outside, summer flies in full stride under a cloudless sky, sun boiling the land below. People walk by the slumbering room in tank-tops and sandals, hair matted to their heads, shirts sticking to their back in narrow patterns of inverted triangles.

The A/C pumps frothy, dry air into the room during the heat of the day. John gathers blankets, hording them to keep warm; he worries, unable to sleep when so cold, and watches Dean toss and turn under a single, sweat-soaked sheet. Constant, unrelenting fever isn't good, healthy, and John can see through the humor and wit. A continuing headache, deep eyes, dull nerves, and now, restless sleep; the curse of that Unseelie is sapping Dean of any strength gained by healing injuries.

It's very real, the shady motives of the Fae. He used to think Dean's negativity, his belief that he was being set up to fail, was the result of pessimistic thinking. Awake in the false darkness of simulated night watching his son battle a fever for which he has no cure, John decides it isn't negative at all, just realistic. Damnit, he warned Dean against making a deal with the Fae, told him they'd find another way.

But there isn't, for either of them.

And so, days are spent asleep, internal clocks switched to nocturnal. The Winchester men check out of motels when other stumble blindly in, breath on fire from games played in bars, passing them by with bright eyes. The father and son get odd looks from lethargic owners or managers, but they pay more attention to odd sleep patterns than fake credit cards with purposely exotic names, and that relieves some tension.

The path to Stewart Hall is no more clear now than it was before meeting with Lydia Hall. Her words planted seeds of doubt; what if Hall had it all wrong, had simply gone insane from the loss of a sister? The Fae believed he had the Sight, but did he, or had he gone so far as to torture that he hunted for ways to alter himself?

Too many questions without answers fester deep in their stomachs, heavy weight they lug between daytime slumbers and nighttime camp-outs in forests and parks and wide open fields of tall grass and sweet flowers. Crouched low in the humidity that never releases its grip, Dean and John swat at buzzing mosquitoes while Dean describes floating magic under a midnight blanket of stars.

50 or 100 miles before the sun can assert itself above, sleep, then a new haunt and the simmering hope of finding Hall one night.

So John listens to Dean talk his nervousness out each night, the wavering tone becoming more sure the longer he talks. Nonsense, mostly, things he misses like hustling pool and driving down wide open interstates clear of traffic. He likes the illusion of being the only car on the road. There's freedom, there, to do or be anything and he jumps into such an opportunity with eyes closed.

During those nights, Dean is more himself, free of fever. He may groan or wince, ribs still sore, but John watches Dean grow back into himself, all those missing pieces held close, put back into place under the dark sky so resembling the world Dean now inhabits.

Things grow complicated along the edge of Salshburg Forest, where the trees thin into a wide field of tall grass. John sits comfortably, knees drawn up to keep his feet flat on the ground; leaping up quickly is easy from this position. Dean lies in the grass next to him, hands folded behind his head, eyes closed -- normally a punishable offense, but no longer; there's no difference between the two for Dean anymore.

He's talking about one of his last nights out with Sam, how he made fun of his brother and wonders if he hadn't, Sam would have stayed. Dean blames himself, John blames himself -- it's an old argument, and he doesn't want to hear any more.

"You think they can see us?" John asks. Dean truncates his sentence and shifts, popping open his eyes.

"Huh? Who?"

John's still uncomfortable with most of this. Dean picks up the slack.

"Probably. Who the hell knows? I can, that's for damn sure. Not the best camouflage, but I don't have any magic soap in my pocket." He grins up at John -- at him, and not off to the side by those rare fractions of an inch. "Why?"

But John doesn't answer. Looks off into the distance where grass crunches, dry from a season without rain.

"Dean, are there any -- "

Dean's sitting up next to him, crouched like a coiled tiger ready to attack. "Hell, yeah. Doesn't look too friendly, either."

A click of a gun being readied; Dean's snapped into hunter-mode, working off what he can see. John follows the line made across the field with his eyes, tracking invisibility. Grass crunches again, and he changes his focus, swinging to his left. The air is charged with static electricity, the small hairs on his arms standing on end when he raises his gun arm and points it between the trees. A twig snaps, loud in his ears from focus. Shift focus, wishes he had a scope; at this distance, he could make the kill shot, no problem.

In, out. John counts the seconds, waits for the mistake, wants to take the opening. Frustration and fear and the bitter taste of mistakes make his trigger finger itch, his body tense in a ridged position. Adrenaline pushes the troubles of the last few weeks into deeper recesses; John needs the hunt as much as anything. It's his crutch and release all at once and fuck if he doesn't enjoy it.

There. Metal reflects in the moonlight, a momentary flash of light between dark trees. A smile blooms on John's scarred face: he's got them. Shifts his aim and with the subtle backward notion of kickback, sends screeching hot lead sailing above their heads.

Shots fly from the trees, _rick-rick_ of silenced shots meshing with louder bangs in the acidic air. John ducks, remembers Dean, and dives to the left where he last marked his position.

He lands in empty grass under a curtain of bullets, and hell, didn't he already do this, get the medal, and come home?

Dean readies his gun without taking his eyes off the goblin. If he remembers correctly -- and it's entirely possible that he doesn't -- goblins aren't usually found roaming around in forests. They like caves and cold, hard stone, not pansy flowers -- just like Dean.

He readies himself all the same. Hunters drove it from wherever it was hiding -- he can deal with them later.

Enough Glamour floats in the air for Dean to see the bulky shape and the grass it stomps though, one thundering step after another in a poor attempt to outrun whoever's yet to come. Dean advances under the cover of the tall grass, waves brushing his cheeks, catching on the cotton of his shirt. Jarred ribs protest silently, working through fire, but flames are something he's learned to deal with.

Moving through the grass blind to everything but his target, Dean gathers details too late. Red-- blood red, cherry red -- fuck. He holds his breath, lungs expanded in a tight, burning chest, and knows he's screwed. God damn, he's crouched no more than three feet from a Redcap, covered in faerie glitter that sparkles as if to say, _hey, look at me!_

Which is what the Redcap does when the thunder of gunfire erupts overhead.

John crawls through the grass, thankful for its cover. One arm in front of the other, torso brushing the ground, he makes his way to Dean, pausing every minute to let off a few rounds. He shoots haphazardly in several directions to give the illusion of several when there's only one. This is a fucked situation, him out in the open while they have the cover of the forest. He marks their position, reaches for Dean, and pulls him down by his belt.

"What the hell -- Dad! Little warning next time," Dean whispers, spitting venom with each word. "Who the hell is shooting at us?"

"What are you doing over here?" John responds in kind. "You don't leave my side, not until you're back, understand me?"

The gunfire pauses, but not the thundering booms.

"What is that?"

Dean scrambles into his original position. "A fuckin' _Redcap_. Now shut-up and get away. Or should I send up a flare?"

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Hell," Dean sighs, exasperated. He pushes at John's shoulder. "_It can see us_. Together, we're a bigger target. Now move your ass and keep me from getting shot." He turns away, bright eyes like the moon above shifting to follow the Redcap. John watches the dark shape lurch through the grass as he slips back a few feet. Sure, it can see anything, but hadn't he just asked about how visible they were?

Crack. John whirls, gun ready, finger poised, and throw back the hammer.

He can hear his dad moving through the grass, the motion of the narrow stalks more rushed and severe than the brush-like movement the grass makes when touched by the breeze. Bullets whiz through the air so fast, they rob the summer heat of its oppressive, dominating humidity in the cone of their wake.

Sweat drops from his brow, down his nose, him and the Redcap locked in place; blue ice meeting the smoldering red of goblin madness. Encountering creatures from legends isn't new to Dean -- from an early age, he knew the monsters most passed off as figments of youthful, overactive imaginations were real, living, breathing beings who were often more horrible than stories made them out to be.

Crunches through dead, faded yellow stalks catches Dean's attention, but he doesn't take his eyes off the goblin with the hat dyed red by human blood. Dead plants break under the steps; too heavy and loud to be his dad's. He slips his hand down his side, ready to grab his knife should he need it.

"It ain't a dinosaur, Dean. Just 'cause you don't move don't mean it can't see you," a breathy, alcohol-tinged voice breathes into his ear.

"I thought you were trying to hunt here, Al. Or should I scare it off for you?" Dean smirks, just a small, lip-creasing show of recognition, amusement. "Got this handy cross in my pocket..."

"How do you think we got it away from the fort? Hell, kid, you going senile in your old age?"

Eyes still locked on the Redcap's, he replies, "Must mean you've gone dumb, you sneaky bitch. Can we save the chat for later?"

"Knew there was sense in there somewhere," Al comments in a rush of whispers. "Keep it occupied; your dad an' I'll take care of it."

"Right, I'll just stand here with the Redcap and his bloody axe while dad and you re-create your favorite war memories. Piece of cake."

Al claps him on the shoulder. "'Atta boy. We're comin' from the sun cardinals."

And he's gone like an exposed secret, crunching on his approach for Dean's benefit.

Fireflies dance in the sky near the Redcap's head, buzzing bits of pink and orange magic attracted by the goblin's natural Glamour. They punch holes in the black sheet between Dean and the world, colored pegs pressed into a Lite-Brite. Except this time, there's no clown or balloons when the pattern's completed, just a Redcap watching him, a stone statue out of place in a field of wild grass. With painful clarity, echo EMF readings gain explanation; magic is drawn to itself, unseen spectators lingering at a crime scene.

He shakes his head with a rueful smile. Great. Being used as bait is one thing -- hell, he's used to that role in hunts despite his dad's discomfort -- but at those times, he could see everything. What if the Redcap moves, and Dean shoots; what happened if his dad or Al was standing in the line of fire? Smile fading as his eyes catch sight of the goblin invading his empty world, Dean reaches into his pocket and fingers his cross.

All these methods to keep Fae away do nothing to him -- is the strain of Fae in him too weak to react? Why would they help him repel others but not himself or his dad?

The Redcap tilts his head and looks at Dean quizzically.

"What?" Dean asks.

The creature seems genuinely confused, and why wouldn't he be? A human isn't running from him, screaming in terror. One playing some fatalistic starring game must at least interest the vicious goblin.

"Whatever," Dean says. As long as it stands still and doesn't attack him with that huge fucking axe, Dean doesn't care how it looks at him. What had looked to be an exciting way to end an evening sitting in the grass of a field -- a field so absolutely boring with its complete lack of anything to do -- now looks to end almost amicably. Shit, the damn Redcap probably feels sorry for Dean, just like every other person -- or thing -- he's encountered since losing his sight.

Screw 'em. They obviously didn't know Dean Winchester, 'cause if they did, they'd know something so trivial like not being able to see wasn't going to slow him down. Just needs to reintroduce himself to life with the shake of a hand instead of a nod of the head and an eye-roll.

Two things he can still do, just has to hear life coming first.

Implausible as it might have been, say, two months ago, Dean's past the freak-out stage and skating toward acceptance. To do anything else would let Estrella and her bitch friends win; and Dean doesn't let anyone win against him unless their name's Sam. In light of recent events, he's considering changing that rule to erase the one exception. Bastard didn't even answer his phone.

His dad and Al aren't going to make any noise while they sweep around the frayed edges of the field to the north and south. Both have the same training Dean received, though in a more official capacity, and wherever he'd make mistakes -- and such instances were rare, Dean made sure of _that_ -- they'd make none. And were he able to see, to track their movement through the subtle difference between the wind and momentum created by men swooping by, none of this impromptu plan would bother him. He doesn't _let_ things get under his skin. Yet lately, even the smallest things have found the cracks in his armor, the teasing slices in his skin, and no matter how pink and healed they become, the cuts still lead not to his physical insides, but his psyche itself.

He's fuckin' scared, and not of the Redcap attacking him, but that his bombastic confidence will inevitable screw with his dad's attachment to living.

Because if his dad got hurt or -- something catches in Dean's throat -- he'd be all alone for real.

And for all the monsters he can face, those he's killed, being alone is something he doesn't know how to deal with.

The Redcap takes a breath, deep and rattling as air passes through thick blood-dyed lips; Dean tenses, hand on his gun tightening. Hell, the thing's seen his dad or Al and is growing impatient --

-- and lets out a sigh in a rush of foul-smelling air.

If it weren't so dark from Dean's perspective, he would laugh at the absurdity of a goblin sneeze. The stench from the Redcap's mouth reaches Dean. He frowns, face wrinkling, and attempts to brush it away with his hand.

"Oh, c'm -- "

Dean's knocked to the ground, the force pushing the rest of his comment out in a burst of fiery breath as his ribs react poorly and set his insides aflame. He struggles against the weight on him, a boulder he can't see or move and shit, he can't breathe. Short, spastic gasps; the pain is too much, too powerful, and he pushes and kicks and feels that sensation of slipping away under Estrella's power and how that finally broke through his outer shell.

Doesn't cry out or make a sound; finally gets free and kips to his feet panting and swallowing huge mouthfuls of air.

So he doesn't see the axe, even though the metal's saturated in faerie magic.

Dean howls as the axe slices at his side, howls and falls to the side a fraction of a second after contact. It jars the direction, cutting a backward L into his left side. The grass falls under the weight of his dropped gun, both hands now occupied with the wound, blood gushing between his fingers, slick water sliding through tight hands. He stems the blood as best he can, t-shirt bunched up against the mark cut deep into him, and rolls over onto his back.

Silver slashes to his left. He rolls a full rotation and bites down on his lip. Another swipe, another roll, and those dancing spectators double, triple, shit, they're all over -- orange and pink and gold twinkling star lights --

Hands on his t-shirt pull him up off the ground -- would she slam him around again -- she, fuck, where is he? -- up off the dry grass, hands tight on his side, on the blood and who's pulling at him, why, so he fights and kicks.

"Well, shit, boy, calm down!"

Alvin Marshall puts his hands and arms out in front of himself, blocking Dean's kicks and wild punches while trying to get a hold on him.

"Dean, c'mon, now," Al pleads in an aww-shucks drawl. "You're just going to hurt yourself more if you keep this up."

A hand comes down on Al's shoulder. He twists to cast worried eyes at John Winchester and takes a step back. This isn't his territory, nor his place. John crouches down at Dean's side, holding the loose skin of his left arm.

"Dean," John speaks softly. He doesn't reach out to touch Dean, doesn't have a free arm anyway, just crouches on the grass and repeats Dean's name a few times.

"John, you best get him settled," Al comments from above. "That fire's gonna draw in Rangers and such."

This is how they speak and think -- sentiment doesn't belong where blood is shed and sweat mingles with the scent of gunpowder. These men wear hard faces, move according to rules and muscle memory. Get the job done. Finish the hunt undetected and patch yourself up later, in those dark hours of momentary regret and veins sapped of adrenaline when there's _time_ to give to the mind.

Not now.

"Get up, Dean. Stop rolling around on the ground like a fucking dog," growls John. He takes his hand from his wounded arm and pulls at Dean, yanks him off the ground, hand grasping Dean's wrist tight enough to leave marks. They come off the ground with a tiny hop, John compensating for the force of his movement. Dean flails but finds his feet, clamps a hand to his side and brandishes his knife with the other.

"Hey, now," Al breaths. Turns to John. "Had it in his boot; you teach him that?"

"Unfortunately," John remarks. "Who are you going to attack with that, son?" Keeps his eyes on Dean as heat licks at his back, the fire started to kill the Redcap munching on the dry summer growth.

Al steps forward, just one foot toed over that invisible line separating him from the father and son, crunching soon to be ashen undergrowth with a boot. Dean whirls at the sound, frantic, almost, and settles his gaze just below Al's left ear.

The newcomer retreats out of surprise, never fear. "So it's true, then."

"What?" John asks, shifting his attention from Dean to Al.

"I heard talk, but thought it couldn't be him, not a Winchester. If there were ever a family pure of heart in this, it's yours."

"Still are," remarks John sadly. He shakes his head, using the motion to shift back to Dean. "Dean -- "

At the sound of his name from those lips, Dean relaxes, allows time to fill in the holes of his memory and tell him he's not in Estrella's lair but a field with his dad and a Redcap.

"Fire's spreading, John. We've got to go," Al says.

"Fire?" Dean blinks. Shrugs his shoulders and _clicks into place_. Face tightens with his shoulders and posture as he slides the knife back into the sheath in his boot. Bending fills more holes, the cut in his side coming to say hello, and he grunts while pressing bloodied hands against it.

His father, also injured and holding together a sliced arm, a piece of skin threatening to fall off, gives a nod and turns in the direction of the small parking area.

It lay on the other side of the thin strip of a once majestic forest shrunk by the greed of man. Where old trees stood proudly reaching for the sky, four lanes of faded gray cement twist north-south. It divides two halves that used to be whole and boasts a roadside oasis with unkempt bathrooms and a faded, weathered sign chronicling the history of the area.

Determined, Dean moves in the same direction, the heat not of summer, but of burning, pushing at his back. He manages two steps, maybe three, before swaying, a rocking punching bag who's seen one too many practice fights. Sways and tilts, feet stumbling in the steps of a drunken dance to keep him upright. Al grabs hold of an arm, pulling Dean up straight and locking him into place.

Ahead, John drops within sight of the cars.

Straight down, all at once, in a way not his own.

Cold water plops in clumps -- large, inconsistent drops -- onto his forehead a few times before he grows annoyed enough to open his eyes.

John doesn't recognize the ceiling, though that isn't uncommon, not since Sam's departure killed the need for a steady, permanent home. It's bleach white covered in yellow nicotine stairs and splashes of a past he doesn't want to know. Lamps cast the room in bright white-yellow light, making everything seem healthy and warm. Almost inviting.

Another plop of water lands on his face. John grumbles, vocalizing his annoyance, and blinks sleep out of his eyes.

"Hey, welcome back, John," Al says. "Good thing, too. Do I look like your personal nursemaid, lieutenant?"

John tries a cocky grin. "Lose a few pounds and change your name, maybe."

Al drops the wet washcloth he's been holding onto John's face. "Asshole. Gave us quite a scare back there."

"Us? Where's Dean?"

"Over here," answers a tired, cracked voice from beyond John's view. He starts to sit up, wanting to see his son and reassure himself, but Al shakes his head.

"I know I'm in no place to tell you what to do -- "

"'Then don't," interrupts John.

"-- so if you want to fuck yourself up more, go for it," Al finishes slowly, shaking his head as John lifts himself off the bed, struggling against -- something. He frowns, confused.

"Yeah, that'd be the hit to your back," Al supplements. "Gonna listen to me, now?"

John scoots up as far as he can, propping up his head and shoulders. Part of Dean comes into view, his leg, still clad in jeans, stretched out above the covers with lazy indifference. It's a good sign, John tells himself; the blood welling up between his son's fingers _must_ have been a dream because it couldn't have been real.

"Just might," concedes John. "Dean, you okay over there?"

"Peachy. Next time you see a goblin coming after me, don't attack it, okay?" Dean drawls in a watered-down version of John's own Southern tone.

"Can't blame him, though," Al says.

He finally moves, backing up to occupy a scarred and stained armchair on the side of the tiny hotel room. His movement is a curtain being pulled at the opening of a play, sliding to reveal John's son --about damn time -- lying on the next bed somewhat lazily; one knee bent, the other extended in a line of dark denim to the light peach of a bare foot. A bandage covers most of his left side, the rest of his skin pale around it. Dean lies on his back, head turned.

The only way to deal in this family is to take a part and ignore the obvious. "This coming from the blind one playing bait."

"What else was I supposed to do, sit and wait for you two to take care of it? No, not an option. Al told me to stay put and I did, end of story. Nothing happened until he tackled me, anyway," Dean ends with a growl, lamely thumbing at Al.

"Cause your dad told me to. Call it an old habit, but when that man shouts and order at me, I don't even think about it," the former Marine admits almost fondly. "Though him jumping the Redcap, well, I never said he was _smart_."

John scoffs. "Never stopped you from asking me for advice. Like when you had that issue with the native girl in -- "

Al throws up his hands, a bubble of laughter growing as they reminisce.

"You promised never to bring that up ever again!"

"He always does that," Dean remarks somewhat jovially," when you question him -- even if he _did_ do something stupid."

"Drop it. What time is it?" John breaks the momentum, bringing the light enjoyment of conversation to a screeching halt.

"Changing the subject. Nice tactic. It's almost four am," Al says. "You were only out for -- "

"Two and a half hours. The Redcap; what was it doing in a _field_?"

"They usually live in old ruins or castles with a nasty past, don't they?" Dean chimes in. He rolls his head to gaze at the ceiling; at least until John remembers he can't see.

"Yeah, except some came over here and took up residence in Indian burial grounds. Moved on to forts from the Revolutionary War, then Civil. You'll fine 'em at most of 'em," Al explains, kicking back in the faded pink chair. "Read reports of people being butchered up here, found with a bucket of their blood next to them. Local police thought it was some kind of new serial killer, but when I found out it was at this old fort that'd seen some bloody action back in the day, I knew what it was."

"A bucket? Man, he couldn't just get some fabric dye?" comments Dean. "Those people had to be..." he trails off, the visual as clear as the pain in his side.

"It was pretty bad. Lured him out by purifying the fort. Damn things are skittish around crosses and the like."

"And the whole shooting at us thing -- pure misunderstanding, huh?"

"He claims he was aiming for the Redcap," John remarks. "Never was all that smart."

"What I want to know is why you two were hanging out there in the first place," Al breaks in. "I knew the Redcap would head that way; it used to be a big Faerie enclave -- goblins don't like 'em that much, but the magic draws 'em in."

"Don't be an ass, Al," John says, tone darker, deeper. "You already have a theory, don't you?"

Even though he asks for it, John doesn't want to know. Al isn't a stupid man. Despite being an enlisted, he had the intelligence to be an officer, and in those sticky jungles, John often conferred with Al instead of his fellow officers.

A twist of fate brought the two men together 15 years later, after the death of Al's third wife. Upset more by the circumstances surrounding her death than the loss of yet another wife (if by death or divorce), he sought out his old buddy John Winchester, using VA records to locate him in Oklahoma.

The second war in Al Marshall's life began over a shared bottle of Jack Daniel's, John pouring both the drink and conversation. Demons and werewolves. Monsters that went bump in the night. By morning, Al had a new purpose in life and soon discovered some truths about his wife he'd rather not know. Such is life.

It did explain his interest in hunting a Redcap and his extensive knowledge of Fae -- his third wife had been a Seelie, now living out her days in an Irish Hill, having grown bored of mortals.

"I've been thinkin' about it, yeah. Like I said, goblins don't like Fae, and Dean here's got the Sight; he could see the goblin plain as day, but not me or you when we came out of the brush," surmises Al, a hand rubbing the day's growth on his chin. He's cocky as only a winner can be; he holds the pocket aces and John only has a pair of twos.

Al notices the trademark Winchester move; he's seen it in action more times than he can count, and notes the way Dean mimics his father's withdrawal as only a child can. Both men grow quiet, tense, both mentally and physically preparing for a defensive from within hard, void shells. He watches and wonders; why would his close friend of so many years feel the need to do so?

"Tell me what happened to your boys," Al tries, calm, leaning forward in the chair with open arms as if to say _look, you can trust me. _

He fears John won't answer with Dean in the room. Dean, the most open and vulnerable of the Winchester men -- and so he needs to wear the hardest shell, hide the most of himself for fear of rejection.

Al's heard the way John talks about his boys when loosened by the bottle and absence of the sun. The truth pours out then, into the night where it may remain hidden. Words he'd never say, feelings he'd never convey but through looks directed at their backs. He fears such love would make them weak, that a father's place is to shape and strengthen his children. In those dark hours stuck between days where time does not exist, John admits he doesn't want to take Mary's place, because she could never be replaced. When his boys think of love and kisses, he wants them to think of their mother.

"It's her place," he'd slur in the sea of memory," always hers, never mine."

To him, the boys will always have two parents, in memory if not life.

They wait. Dean falls asleep quickly, fever returning to join forces with trauma to push him over the edge, the cusp of sleep and unconsciousness dropping away just as the sun begins to climb into a clear blue sky.

He slips against his will, dropping off in the middle of some quick remark, body unable to meet his growing demands -- self-imposed orders made out of desperation for sanity, control. The gash on his side is deep, another scar to be added to his collection, and Al and John stay to make sure he's fine on his own; breathing and sleeping in a shade matching the sheet they cover him with, then the comforter, and leave him to heal.

John never leaves the bed he's propped up in, but things shift, change just enough so that it's two buddies drinking their problems away. The white elephant is still in the room -- now represented by the slumbering kid on the bed -- but there's always been one. It gives the last they need to be comfortable, so Al pulls a bottle from the crinkled brown bag clutched in his hand during the walk back from the convenience store next door and uncaps it with a _swish_ of aluminum against glass. There's two dirty glasses; Al fills them both. They've drunken out of worse, missed fingerprints and chips in the smooth, rounded surfaces not bothering either.

As the bottle empties, the room fills with the pieces John keeps in a box in the closet of his mind. He tells Al about Sam's departure, about how he's scared every day will be the one he gets a call reporting Sam's death. That one day will come where their next case will be that of their own family, again.

"He's a good kid," Al tells him. "You trained him good. He can take care of himself."

"Doesn't mean I don't worry," John counters. "God, Al, I worry so damn much."

"Can't blame you, with what's out there. But he knows what to do."

John shakes his head, chin nearly dragging on his chest, then twists to watch Dean sleep. "They both do. Doesn't mean something can't happen, something bigger."

He gives the whole story, then, tongue moving with trust only alcohol can give, forgetting about the secret even he can't fully accept. Al knows this, but curiosity has gotten the better of him; life is full of good intentions that strike at the weaknesses of others. Can't help it, can't believe what he's hearing.

"You're sure?" Al asks. He thinks of his third wife, of his search for her killer only to discover she was still alive, had left him out of boredom. Her contempt for him was thick smoke used to drive him away, but not before he knew her true reasons for marrying him. Yes, Al hunted those Fae who crept from 'tween into the world of humans, hoping to spare as many as he could from the fate he suffered.

"They can't lie," John replies. "But I can. What does that mean?" He takes a large gulp, finishing his third glass of liquid courage. "Salt doesn't do anything, or iron."

"Maybe she's screwin' with you," Al says, grasping at straws. He doesn't consider himself a judgmental man -- he looks past the shortcomings of his friends or allies -- yet his brain's already going through farfetched scenarios, seeing images of John laughing at him, his ex-wife at his side, both speaking half-truths through harsh words.

"Can't be. Look at Dean. He had the Sight before being captured. Damnit, Al, I thought he was lying."

"Dean? He'd never lie to you. You said it yourself; you and Sammy are his entire world." John says nothing, just bows his head. "Oh, John, what did you do?"

John looks up, eyes bleary from pain and drink. "Nothing, yet."

"Shit, what are you gonna do to that poor boy? Hasn't he been through enough? Fuck, he's only twenty-four!"

"He's strong enough, he can handle it. It's for his own good, Al. I can't -- I doubted him, _punished_ him because _I_ couldn't believe myself. What kind of father does that make me?"

"You're only human, John. Findin' something like this out has gotta be hard, especially on you. Hell, if I found out I was related somehow to these monsters, well, fuck."

John groans, head dropping again. He's losing his battle with sleep, injury and depressant pressing down on him, fingering his eyelids. He's a strong man who's stayed awake for days on end, but there aren't bullets flying over them, now, or the threat of snipers hiding in the brush. So much weighs down on John, oh, so much, and Al sits dumbfounded across from the injured Winchesters, half-men hunters, and presses the heels of his hands into his closed eyes, leaning forward in that faded pink chair.

"Why'd you have to trust me, John?" he whispers into the room, air conditioning clunking in the window to his right. "You stupid old fool."

The day grows hot and humid, the breeze growing stronger with the scent of rain trailing as it comes and goes in waves of relief from the summer heat. The barometer dropping to make old men's knees ache with throbbing reminders of days gone by. Foolish days of youth come to haunt them when storms brew on the horizon.

When Dean falls awake, he hears only the hum of the air conditioner and the soft snoring of his dad, both to his left. No shifting or loud breaths of Al. His musty scent of old cologne and sweat lingers in the air, but it's only a remnant. Al's no longer there, and that worries him.

The wound in his side limits his movements, but he swallows back that tight feeling in his throat that comes with the wave of nausea and swings his feet over the edge of the bed. Things waver in his head, brain throbbing behind his eyes, between his ears. Dean swears -- the fever's back, his jeans uncomfortably sticking to his knees when he bends them even in the frosty room, sweat still in the cloth from his sleep.

Alcohol saturates the air, the stench making Dean wrinkle his nose in disgust -- not only does it cause that latent nausea to jump into his throat, but it brings back childhood memories of finding Daddy asleep in front of the TV, not waking when Dean shook him and yelled his name. Sight isn't needed to know Dad's passed out on the other bed, though why Al would give Dad alcohol, then leave him -- both of them -- injured and defenseless --

Dean lurches forward, grabs for the trash can between the beds, and throws up. Each heave pulls at the crooked stitches made with black sewing thread, threatening to split open the Redcap's gift, but he's lost control and hates it. He continues until there's nothing left for his stomach to reject, and when he finishes, Dean lets the can fall from his fingers and gulps down air. Gives himself a minute to recover before reaching across the space separating the two beds and laying a hand on Dad's arm.

Fuck. He can only think of one reason why Al would leave his wounded war buddy behind, and it wasn't for a beer run.

"Dad," he says, voice thick with sleep. "Dad, wake up."

That memory comes into sharper focus when John doesn't wake at the sound of Dean throwing up or the hand on his arm. Dean's been punished for less, and shakes John harder.

John jolts awake, left hand grasping Dean's wrist and twisting it painfully past its limit, yanking at it in the same motion. Already sore from the 'help' off the ground earlier, Dean sucks in breath and gives a small grunt.

He growls between clenched teeth. "Dad, we've gotta stop meeting like this. Have something against my left arm?"

A flicker of consciousness passes over John's face before his eyes snap open and he releases Dean's wrist.

"Damn, you're jumpy," Dean remarks. It's either that or screaming at his dad for being so _fucking stupid_, but that isn't done, isn't how you speak to your father. So he lies low and deflects with sarcasm while rubbing an aching wrist.

"Where's Al?" Because John doesn't say sorry to his boys; to him, it's a show of weakness. Reflex can't be mistaken for conscious thought or intent, and Dean knows that.

Doesn't make his wrist or shoulder hurt any less.

"You two have a nice chat with Jack Daniels while I was out?"

John groans. "What's that smell?"

"My stomach. Shit, dad, what did you tell him?"

"What he needed to hear."

Dean would shake his head or laugh a bit if he weren't so damn tired. "And that was...?"

"Don't question my tactics, son. Al needed to know about the Fae Queen and," -- he pauses, swallows the lump in his throat; this was easier to say out loud when everything had fog obscuring it -- "what she told us."

"What she told us? Have you forgotten that Al doesn't _exactly_ have a soft spot for Fae?"

"More like a blind spot."

"Yeah. He _hunts_ them, dad. Hell, _we_ hunt them. You think he'll just forget about your little chat?"

"No," John says. "He'll get backup."

"Backup. Fuckin' wonderful. Great idea, him -- " Dean breaks off as his brain wakes up despite the construction crew working on it with at least five jackhammers. He grins in stages corresponding with the logic process going through his head until, finally, he gives John a rough punch in the arm -- misses, and hits the air.

"He's gonna get backup," he breaths. Smirks. "How long do you think we have?"

John smiles, proud. "I'd say a day at the most."

Dean flops back onto the bed and closes his eyes, thankful he'll get a few more hours of rest. "He's going to bring Hall right to us." The end is in sight, so close, he can feel the gun in his hands --

-- and shudders. Is he really going to do this?

Can he?

It isn't a question of technicality; he held and fired his first gun at nine years old. Cock the pin, loop your finger around the trigger, widen your stance to compensate for kickback, and fire. It's a gentle motion, taking a caress more than roughness when pulling the trigger of a gun, and while aimed at creatures threatening to kill another innocent, he almost wishes some degree of violence was required to shoot them.

With Hall, the passive, soft touch needed seems too much. Dean shoves a mask on Stewart Hall in his mind, gives him the shape and appearance of something far more sinister, but it always slips off at the last second. For a man who's killed things most of his life, he's finding the concept hard.

The bed next to him creaks.

"How's your side?" John asks.

"Fine."

"Al took care of it?"

Dean smirks. "Yeah. With sewing thread. I get the feeling he's something of a clown. Prick. It's going to hurt like hell to get it out."

"You didn't tell him where the medical kit is?"

"Wasn't all there, if you get what I'm saying. He said I sang a bit -- off-key. Like I sing anything off-key."

"What'd he say?"

"Pretty deep. Stay off my feet for a few days. Told him I've had worse," Dean scoffs.

"Maybe you should," John says. His feet hit the floor hard, and he moans a bit under his breath; Dean doesn't say a word, knows it's the hangover and any comment would just start a fight.

"What?" he asks. Hears the bed give as his dad stands.

"Stay off your feet for a few days."

"I don't think Hall would come over here so I could shoot him, Dad."

John pauses, leaning against the doorframe to the bathroom. "No, he wouldn't."

"Don't start this again," Dean warns. "Don't you dare. This was my choice to make, and I made it."

"I just don't want you to get hurt. You weren't at -- "

"I'll live," Dean interrupts. "Sorry, Dad, but you've got to drop it."

"There's something –" he rakes a hand through his messy hair -- "you lose something, son, when you kill another man. It changes you."

"I know," Dean says quietly. "But I've got to do it."

John nods. Before he falls into the shower, John cries for his son.


	14. Part 2, Chapter 8

Oh, I was going to wait to post this, but what the hell, right? I shouldn't hold it captive when there are so many of you lovely, lovely people waiting patiently for it. That being said, keep your eyes peeled -- I might just feel charitable tomorrow and give you the rest.

Sorry for the insane overabundance of horizontal rules -- just doesn't like double paragraph breaks.

**

* * *

**

**These Crimes of Illusion**  
_Chapter 2.8_

They're waiting outside when Al returns in his dark blue pick-up truck, headlights orbs of artificial light in the midday sun. It slides up next to the Impala, black and blue, American classics fighting time, just like the men who drive them. Friends and enemies -- the line's been blurred, here, by magic and blood and ancestors no one knows.

Two men sitting on the edge of the raised walkway, two in the cab of the truck, eyes on eyes, words unneeded. The oncoming storm lingers and grows, the air damp and thick, heat swirling under the cap of deep gray clouds as if the world's anticipating the heaviness of this simple meeting.

The doors to Al's truck don't squeak with age when opened, just sigh and click when closed. No show, no pizzazz or neglected love, just cold, hard metal cared for exactly as the owner's manual says.

Al and his back-up approach; neither Winchester stands when their feet are inches from the newcomers'. John looks up with tired eyes as Dean's remain focused somewhere none of them can see, their mouths twin lines of determination.

"Et tu, Al?" John says after a moment. Lightning crackles in the distance, static electricity building in the atmosphere.

"It's not like that, John," Al replies, voice low. "Stewart's here as back-up. We've gotta take you in until we get to the bottom of this."

Stewart Hall isn't as either imagined. Lydia Hall's descriptions of his degrading mental health and questionable activities following his sister's departure created an image of a younger kid on the wrong side of morality, eyes ablaze with insanity or bloodlust. Loose clothes, dirty shoes and jacket; both painted Hall as poorly as they could, needing him to be sick and deranged, driven by guilt or remorse by his sister's betrayal.

What they're presented with is a man who wouldn't be out of place on the richer streets of any city in America. If he'd lost his mind, he retained his status, dressed in a beige suit and clean-cut. He moves like he's the center of attention, and he is.

"Didn't know they had fae markers on DNA tests," comments Dean. He leans on the pillar marking one side of the porch's entrance, head tilted to skew the way his eyes focus off to the side. The sunglasses have come off for effect, to unnerve Al and Hall -- the blind change expected dynamics.

"C'mon, now. This doesn't have to be hard. Just follow us in your car back to my place."

"As simple as that, huh?" John scoffs. "Follow you back, and then what? Tie us up and try out your new toys?"

Al frowns and shakes his head, makes a good show of sorrow at John's suggestion.

"After all we've been through..." Al starts, but never finishes. John leaps up from his seat on the motel's porch and, palms out, shoves Al back until he hits the hood of his truck, light from the left headlight displaced in odd shapes from the edges of the shadows in front of it.

"All we've been through. That's bullshit. If any of that meant a flying fuck to you, you wouldn't have left me and my son wounded and gone off to get fucking backup!" John roars, alcohol-burned voice rough with anger. Shoves Al again; this time, Al pushes back.

"Who the hell are you to say anything to me, huh? Wasn't it you who warned me about Regina and her _kind_? Can't take them words back because you decided to do some genealogy, Winchester," he shouts at equal volume. "And not that it means a hoot of difference, but Stewart called me. Heard you were looking after him."

Dean straightens a bit; a tingling in the back of his mind acting as a warning.

John turns to Hall. "That true?"

"Al, will you give us a minute?" Hall asks. He speaks slowly, with well-formed, enunciated words. Higher education -- intelligence and insanity is a dangerous mix.

"A minute? You don't even -- "

It happens fast, as such things do. Hall slides a hand from his pocket, whirls around, and shoots Al. Once, twice. Al's body hits the hood with a dull _thud_, blood spraying onto John's face and clothes. He reacts before Al hits the ground, pulling out his own weapon and whirling to point it at Hall --

"Don't," Hall warns. Gun trained on Dean, now standing with a hand on the pillar for support.

"Fuck, Dad, you alright?" Dean asks.

"Your father's fine," Hall answers for John with a smirk. "Now, Dean Winchester, you're going to answer my questions. Such as why the Seelie Queen sent a blind man to kill me?"

* * *

Hall said, "Let's go for a walk," so John Winchester did. The weapon pointed at his son's a strong motivator for him, and he listens to that over instinct shouting for him to take Hall down. A booted foot to the knee, arm around the neck, palm up into the nose -- once, twice, three times and Hall wouldn't be a problem anymore. But Hall has him in the lead where he can't see Dean, can't do anything that Hall wouldn't see coming. 

The Queen's words were clear -- killing Hall at this point would completely take away any chance of Dean regaining his sight, of having even this pale imitation of a normal life. Both Queens would hunt Dean until his blood was on their hands, joined together by a common enemy. Either Dean gained the upper hand, or he was dead; by Hall's hand now or the Faes' later.

And there's not a fucking thing he can do about it.

Just as children experience a new, helpless awakening when reaching those bubble-bursting years of adolescence, parents experience the same when they finally realize their children can no longer be protected by their arms. All boo-boos can't be kissed away, mean kids stopped by a simple phone call. Storms come and they have to brave it out on their own. John feels that now, even though his children have been in life and death situations many times before. Because before, he's jumped into the line of fire, has spoken when it's required, locked them in rooms and told them to _stay put_.

He can't do any of that, now.

Their footsteps sound in time with the light drizzle that's started falling, a misting of cleansing rain the ground sourly needs. Like the high notes of a playful piccolo, the drizzle dances over the hood of Al's truck and the Impala's roof, then drops off onto the pavement.

Hall directs John farther into the woods, a hand gripping Dean's upper arm, keeping him close to the gun pointed at his head. The forest is far, but this part of the state's densely forested; a small, private wood sits adjacent to the motel's patch of land, and Hall heads in that direction with a long, confident stride.

When they pass between the outer-most trees, he begins to ask his questions.

"What did she offer you in exchange for my life?" Hall chooses as his first, still walking. Branches lay low on these younger trees, revealing the age of the forest; no Fae in a place so young, through it has enough years to shade them as shadows and keep their dealings secret.

Dean stumbles over exposed roots, branches he can't see slashing at his face, but he doesn't utter a word.

Hall forces them deeper, farther from prying eyes and the body of Al, deeper to where the storm grows in the distance, but is unable to break through the canopy, not yet. Thunder claps, followed by another _thunk_ of force; this one from Hall hitting the gun against the side of Dean's head.

"Answer me," Hall demands.

"Screw you," Dean shoots back. "I'm not playing 20 questions."

"You're going to die in this place," Hall says, moving to swat Dean again, but the prisoner easily ducks out of the way.

"One of us is," Dean smirks, "But I wouldn't be so sure it's me. I've got stuff to do."

"Like what? Steal? Cheat people out of their money? You're a drain on society -- "

"Whatever, man. If you've gotta ride that high horse of yours, go right ahead."

"I've got a question for you," John calls from up ahead, turning slightly to face Hall and Dean. "Why'd you shoot your partner? Wouldn't it be easier to take us down with help?

Hall stops. "Al wasn't my partner, just means to an end."

"Why, you -- "

But John doesn't get the chance to finish. The gun in Hall's hand goes off, shot by Dean as he grapples for it, relying on sound and touch to guide his movements. Another shot, and John leaps into the fray, pulling at Hall to give Dean the chance to get the gun.

He may not be able to kill Hall, but he sure as hell can help restrain him. He can do that much.

So he does.

* * *

Stewart Hall lands on his knees with a _squish_ of wet Earth as it gives beneath his weight. Hands loop behind his head before the request is given -- there is no pretense; all here know what will happen. Hall laces his fingers together and raises his head against the onslaught of rain. 

Thunder booms in the distance.

The storm has been brewing for some time, now, gathering strength as it crosses the Pennsylvanian landscape to settle just over them. Raindrops fall like pellets; large, moist tears of the sky.

"Just give me the chance to _explain_," Hall pleads, voice wavering now that the tables have turned. John and Dean stand above him, guns poised and ready. "You can't take their side over _me_. That's crazy!"

"What's crazy is you thinking killing innocent creatures is okay because they're not _human_," Dean retorts sharply, voice laced with distain. "That's just murder, man."

"And this isn't?"

"I haven't done anything, yet."

Hall closes his eyes and tilts his head to kiss the sky. Dean's ultimatum hangs in the humid air, heavy and finite. After all those years of believing he was doing good by the world, ridding it of evil, it comes to this. There is no gray here -- the hunter inevitably becomes that which he hunts.

"Please. They took my sister. Lured her away from us and convinced her she didn't want to return," Hall says. The pain is still fresh in his eyes; his voice breaks out of sorrow, not fear.

"So? You go after the son of a bitch who took her. You don't go out and kill _everything_," Dean offers. His grip on the gun tightens and he uses Hall's voice to adjust the trajectory, to point it directly at the kneeling man.

"What about you?" Hall bravely counters. "Everyone knows the story of the Mighty Winchesters. Demon killed your mom so you start a crusade against the supernatural."

Dean doesn't falter. "We hunt things that hurt people, not flower power faeries."

"They all will hurt someone eventually," offers Hall.

"Fine. When they do, we'll get 'em. But not before."

"And if they knew something? Could tell you where and _how_ to kill that demon? What then?"

Here, Dean takes pause and glances over his shoulder to where he thinks John's standing, brow creased with thought.

John knows what he's thinking. How many times over the years has he proclaimed he'd do whatever it takes to find and kill the demon that took Mary's life? His research has taken over his life, blinded him to problems at hand; if only he'd focused on the hunt in front of him, the _son_ in front of him, all this could have been avoided.

How ironic, he thinks, that at the moment he decides to step in, all he can do is sit back and watch?

* * *

Dean rules his life with lines. Straight, defined lines that leave no room for shades of gray. The world, people, things, are either good or bad. They leave no room for compromise or exceptions to the rule, just clear divisions with populations on either side. 

When it comes to his family, there is no line -- to him, there is no question of morality or rightness where his family's safety is concerned. Asked to walk into hell itself and he gladly would if it meant giving them even one more day of life.

Hall's argument appeals to this part of Dean, locked away deep inside where monsters lurk. Replace Hall's sister with Sam, and Dean finds himself wondering if he, too, would cross that line between killing creatures that harm and those who live good lives.

Replace Hall's sister with Mary, and would his dad?

Dean turns to his father for just a second, more out of habit than the need to see him.

To save either of them, he'd happily trample everything underfoot, wouldn't he?

Or is that untarnished part of his soul, of those he'd sacrifice for, worth taking the long road? Hell, his life has been nothing but a never-ending quest to find his mother's killer, and while he's broken a lot of laws on the way, Dean's sure he can say he's fought mostly on the side of good and never crossed that line between hunter and monster.

"There's a right way," Dean finally says, "and the fast way. Tell me something; if you got your sister back right here and now, would you be able to live with all the good things you've killed? Would she?"

"I could die happy, knowing she was safe."

"Let me put it this way, then. How would she feel, knowing all those things died for her?" When Hall doesn't answer, Dean lets out a chuckle. "Pansy-ass amateur."

"Fuck you," Hall spits. "Who made you judge and jury?"

"You did, when I got fucking tortured and blinded because of _your_ crimes. Before this, I was just minding my own business on my way to kill a banshee 'cause people are too stupid to know when to close their doors."

"How pretentious. Sorry my search for my sister got in the way of your killing spree."

"Asshole. Tease the guy with the gun. You're just as stupid as the rest of them."

Hall laughs. "We both know you won't do it. You'd rather be blind than a murderer."

"I'd be doing the world a favor by killing you."

"They're all evil. Tricksters. Just because they haven't harmed anyone doesn't mean they deserve to exist."

"Whoa, now. Deserve to exist? Who made you God?"

Hall doesn't acknowledge the interruption. "I knew when they took my sister they were freaks. They belong in fairy tales, not roaming around where they can do what they want. The police aren't going to investigate. They won't charge anyone. Where's my justice?"

"What, you're a vigilante now? The law doesn't do what you want so you take it into your own hands?"

"What law?" Hall half-sobs, half-laughs. "We need to show these creatures they're accountable. You mess with a human and we're going to strike back."

"Collateral damage," Dean breathes. Fuck, this guy's gone _way_ over the deep end.

"Governments do it all the time."

"Yeah, against enemies. You just don't discriminate between those that might have taken your sister and innocents who happen to be the same _species_. That's not hunting, that's genocide."

"Why stop with the Fae?" Hall continues, deep into hysterics. "Kill 'em all. They don't deserve to live. This is a world of humans."

"Fuck...," says Dean. "Do you even hear yourself?"

"At least I didn't turn into a freak like you," Hall says slowly, drawing out the word freak as long as his New England accent will allow. "Look at you, hell, even if you _were_ going to kill me, you can't see where to aim the gun!"

Dean hears him shift on the ground and compensates accordingly, gun cutting through the air. Raindrops bounce off the slick black metal, falling around the weapon to create a void in space.

"How'd you do it?" Dean asks. "How'd you make them think you had the Sight?"

"I killed one for a supply of faerie juice. They only had rumors, stories. And we both know how fear and ignorance warps such things so they only hear what I want them to." Hall's hysterical, breath coming out between hiccups and laughter. "They took my sister. _Have_ her. What was I supposed to do? Stand by and let them have her? What's to stop them from doing it again?"

Leaves crunch behind Dean, wet, sloppy snaps of soaked underbrush.

"They've been doing it for centuries. You're not the first one to go after them," John speaks. His voice is closer than before and Dean wants him to get the hell back, to go to the car and wait because no father should have to watch their son kill a man in cold blood even if doing so would save both of them from a life on the run from things that could move without sound or shadow.

And that doesn't even bring into account the fact that they might go after Sam to draw out their true prey.

He turns and opens his mouth, "Dad, go -- "

-- Hall lets out a cry behind him.

In a fit of rage, Hall slams into Dean, sending both men sprawling to the ground. The sudden jolt, combined with Hall's weight settling atop him, sends all the air from Dean's lungs as healing ribs and a wounded side scream in pain. Hands grasp both side of his head and _fuck_, this feels familiar -- Dean's head is smashed into the mushy ground.

Rain has softened it enough to minimize the impact of the blow, but Hall knows that. Dean braces himself for another blow only to feel Hall pressing his face _into_ the ground -- the moist, damp, suffocating ground.

Head swimming, Dean struggles to free himself from Hall's clutches -- he's _better_ than this, damnit! -- to at least turn his head enough to suck in some air through his nose.

Someone shouts -- Dean can't be sure of anything, not with the sound of his own heartbeat pounds mercilessly in his ears. It echoes through his head, a countdown to inevitability. One of them was always meant to die here, and in hindsight, the possibility it was never Hall is so apparent, it's a wonder it didn't smack Dean on the back of the head.

Hall isn't the human who can see Glamour, Dean is. He's the bigger threat, the cross between fae and human that isn't supposed to exist.

Which begs the question: was the more dangerous man, one who can see the fae, or one who slaughters them?

The pressure on the back of his head lightens just a bit, but it's enough -- Dean turns his head to the side and takes a deep, measured breath. Hall's still straddling his back, and combined with his aching lungs, Dean can only manage shallow gasps -- even when his body, _him_, yearns for more.

Hall's weight is suddenly removed.

Above, the world plays on. Dean can only hear grunts and that _thwack_ of skin bashing against skin, two boxers facing off above him and he missed the starting bell.

Another moment, and the Queen's words fly through Dean's mind. _He can help you find him, but Hall must die by your hand_.

Shit.

Dean tells himself to get up, but can only manage to rise to his hands and knees; his head hangs, dizzy, while he regains control over his breathing.

"God damnit, Dad, stop!" Dean shouts. Mud squelches, but there are no more _thwacks_ of bone against flesh. "Just get out of here."

"There's no way I'm leaving you alone with him, Dean," growls John. God, Dean knows that tone, that fiercely protective underbelly to his dad's scratchy voice that comes out when he feels one of his sons is in real, tangible danger.

"You want to mess up my chance of -- " and he stops because Hall is still standing there, panting, off to the right somewhere. Dean pushes himself upright and attempts to match his dad's tone. "Just get out of here, damnit."

"Excuse me?"

Before Dean can respond, there's a scuffle near where Dean approximates Hall stands. Sounds of a struggle. Dean wipes rain from his face; its coming down harder, now, thunder booming over their heads.

"Let go of me, asshole," Hall swears. More struggling. Dean curses his blindness; if he could see, he'd be in the thick of it, pulling them apart. Standing on his own. That his dad needs to restrain and guard Hall is a testament to Dean's new status in the world. A hindrance. Unable to even keep an eye on his prisoner.

A prisoner who's death can end this. Here. _Now_.

With a flourish developed over years of handling firearms, Dean raises his gun over his head and lets off four shots.

They reverberate through the forest. A bird's wings flap as, scared, it flies off.

"Now that everyone's listening," Dean sneers. He's angry at the situation, angry with himself for not being able to handle it.

"C'mon, man, your _daddy_ wants to help," Hall comments, words thick with malice. "The family that kills together, stays together."

Dean uses Hall's remarks to find him. "Let him go, Dad."

* * *

John has always seen his children as just that; children. No matter how old they get, or tall, or tough, they remain small and innocent in his eyes. 

But there comes a time in a parent's life when they need to let go of such images -- just _let go_. Children grow up, with or without their parents' permission, and as Dean stands there, gun held ready, John realizes this is that moment.

He releases his hold on Hall's right arm and takes a few steps back. He wants to shout _we can find another way_ -- his mantra since learning his little boy would have to kill a man -- but holds back. Doing so would only weaken Dean in Hall's eyes, and Dean needs all the help he can get.

For his part, Hall doesn't take off. Simply stands rooted to the spot, creepy smile painted on his face.

"I'll meet you at the car," John finally concedes.

He takes a mental snapshot of Dean before he walks away.

Next time he sees his son, he'll be a different man.

* * *

Footsteps echo through the growing storm as a wind blows through the forest as if sweeping the unneeded away. There is little sound other than the pellets of rain falling around them, a symphony of drums beating in time with tardy thunder and the rhythm of Dean's heart. It pulses with the storm, quick and heavy; like the storm, he, too, means to destroy. 

But trees will re-grow broken limbs and swollen rivers will recede over time. Gun heavy and slick in his sweaty palm, Dean, too, can benefit from the healing nature of time.

He raises his arm, now as heavy as lead with intent, and listens for the gap between raindrops. It takes a moment, but he finds it; that heavy arm sways to the left. Index finger tightens against the trigger. He can feel the resistance from the spring mechanism and uses it as an excuse for momentary hesitation.

Hall sees the opening and takes it.

Dean can't see, but he can hear. Just a second; he shifts his weight just as Hall smashes into him, managing to stay upright this time. Hall's hands wrap around the gun, one hand committed to yanking Dean's finger from the trigger.

He pulls with such force against the loop -- pulls one way, Dean's finger bending the other -- the snap of breaking bone is drowned out by a crash of thunder. Dean shouts, balling pain and anger into one unintelligible cry and yanks back his hand.

The gun falls to the slick earthen floor.

Both men scramble to retrieve it -- this is the apex, the deciding moment. Whomever grabs it first, wins. No replays or appeals. Finality in a steel bullet.

Dean's fingers graze cold metal only to have it pulled from his grasp. He gropes farther, blindly, heart beating faster than the slowing pitter-patter of rain.

A foot comes up, smashing into Dean's chin. He yelps, falling backward -- another kick connects with his tender ribs.

Hall punctuates his words with vicious jabs. "So high and mighty, thinking you're better than me. You're as guilty as I am."

Below him, Dean coughs and curls into himself, muttering long-forgotten prayers in Latin, not for salvation, but strength. Men of his profession can ask for nothing more, and when Hall relents, Dean mutters _grátias ago_ to whoever was listening.

At a young age, when his father often yelled or got angry at anything, Dean learned to feign perfection. It began with silence, afraid anything he said would upset his dad -- afraid upsetting his dad would make him leave as mom did. Death is incomprehensible to a five year old, and at that time, he wholeheartedly believed it was something _he_ did wrong that made mommy leave.

After silence came obedience. Do whatever dad says and he won't get mad. And after the event with the shtriga, when dad got mad and mooned over Sam even though he was loud and didn't listen, Dean learned to hide everything he felt in a tiny box in the back of his mind. All his dreams and emotions, those words he really wanted to say but was afraid to -- in essence, himself. Locked away where he could forget they even existed.

He reaches in there now, exchanging pain and that deep exhaustion of the soul for everything he's repressed. Lets it loose in one tsunami of resentment and anger that drives him to his feet.

Blinded now not only physically but in heart and mind and soul, Dean lunges forward and knocks Hall from his feet. The gun spirals from Hall's grasp, rainwater bouncing from it in the _whick-whack_ of a sprinkler on a summer lawn. Dean stretches, snatches it from where it landed with a _plop_ in a puddle, the index finger of his left hand curling around the trigger. Once. Twice.

The third shot lingers in the air with the pungent odor of gunpowder.

Dean lets the gun fall from numb fingers after the sounds of Hall's fading life finally reach their end.

Dean falls to his knees, then his side, and clutching his burning torso, weeps.


	15. Part 2, Chapter 9

The final chapter. Read on.

* * *

**These Crimes of Illusion**  
_Chapter 2.9_

Red and blue hits the trees and reflects off the wet leaves, catching the flashes of light to throw it back out again in altered patterns full of holes. White remains trapped, its overabundance washing out the warmer colors as the summer storm rages on. Lightning flashes in the distance, ignored, overshadowed by blinding headlights and wavering flashlight beams. The storm sends a boom of thunder in annoyance, a five-year-old throwing a temper tantrum.

Police swarm around the motel, most focused on the dark blue truck once belonging to Alvin Marshall, formerly of the US Marines and a Vietnam veteran. Motel guests stand huddled in the red-rimmed doorways of their rooms or staring from behind drawn curtains, eyes wide as they watch the ultimate form of entertainment, a developing crime scene.

John Winchester watches from the edge of the wood next to the motel, hidden from view by tall trees heavy with foliage and summer rain. Watches and waits, arms crossed. The rain falls unhindered onto him; he stands soaked but doesn't feel it. His friend, a close friend, from both wars he's fought, one official, one his own, lays dead across the blacktop. His son, God, may lay dead in the woods behind him or may come sauntering out and suggest they get that drink now.

So he stands and waits, counting the minutes in his head; meditation requires an emptying of the mind, and counting helps maintain such strict focus. It keeps John from thinking the worst, from thinking at all. Lights bounce on his stoic face, deepening the shadows on it and catch the sorrow in brown eyes.

When the count reaches six minutes, his arms drop from the defensive stance and fall to his sides. At seven, he looks over his shoulder and considers trespassing on his son's solitude.

Tires squeal, spinning out on the wet pavement, the sharp noise snatching John's jumpy attention from the woods to the crime scene. The ambulance is careening down the road, lights flashing and siren blaring. Each revolution of the piercing screech builds hope; if Al could be alive, Dean could, and the night might not be a crapshoot after all.

He feels Dean's presence as only a parent can, strong and vibrating at his side, before he says a word.

"Al?" asks Dean, his question scratchy, deeper, even. He's aged in the last ten minutes, crossed over the line from child to adult in a way age can't touch.

"If the siren's on, he's still alive," John replies as evenly as he can. "They don't turn it on if someone's dead."

They stand, silent, as the wailing sirens fade, tapering off in a peel of thunder. Large droplets of rain plunk on the ground, on them; rolling to lower ground to collect in pockets of sunken earth. Footsteps become a trail of puddles leading out of the woods. Neither knows how long they stand there under the trees; police come and go, and when John takes a step onto the blacktop, only one patrol car remains.

"Dad," Dean says, and the shattered tone gives pause. This is a discussion he's never rehearsed in his head, never prepared for. Since his boys were old enough to fire a gun, he's reinforced the rule that they don't kill humans. Never. Unacceptable. It's a line John crossed when around Dean's age, one he never wanted his boys to even see.

He's yet to look at Dean, afraid of what he'll see. Now, he turns and shoves his hands into his pockets, looking down to rearrange his face before holding his head high.

"Dad, I -- he took us there for a _reason_," Dean manages. "Crazy as he was, he knew these were young trees."

John frowns. This isn't what he was expecting. The remaining patrol car lets out a loud _whoop_, white hot headlights swinging around, momentarily illuminating Dean. He's hunched, arms wrapped around his chest, and as the light hits his eyes, he blinks rain from them --

"I still can't see," he finishes as those ice blue eyes catch in the light. The glimpse is gone as the car flicks on its sirens and takes off in a roar of shifting gears and a revving engine.

Lightening flashes behind Dean. John hears the hiccup of breath of leftover sobs and tries to keep his heart from bursting out his chest.

"I killed him and they couldn't see it," Dean chokes out. "Fuck, I did it and nothing changed."

"No, son," John says, "just you."

Dean nods, sways, and falls forward into his father's arms. The sky opens up with a blast of thunder and releases enough tears for both of them.

--

Two days sees the Impala's return to Chilton Woods.

Belongings are scattered haphazardly in the back seat, grabbed quickly and shoved wherever there was room before the cops returned to find the missing occupants of room 173. Clothes and weapons mingle under the grey-blue sky of a departing storm, still damp from runs through the rain and slow to dry in the muggy humidity.

The drive was marked by silence, the engine gossiping under the hood with no one listening. After awhile, even the loud rumbling became a dull ambient sound like the whistling wind outside open windows. Dean sleeping in the passenger seat left John to his thoughts, shouting voices growing in volume in an effort to be heard. He shuts them up with counting and multiplication tables until Dean shifts, then jolts awake violently, all arms and legs and wild eyes.

John's ready for the talk he knows is coming. Two hours out, he stopped to replenish the alcohol supply he and Al depleted during their discussion. Elixir of the Gods, though God has little to do with the mistakes of mortals. It will help Dean quiet the memories yanking him awake; for how long, John doesn't know. His son's a stronger, better man than he, and perhaps he'll make it to the other side in one piece.

The car slides easily into the space it occupied days before, and the engine gives one last burst of conversation, then falls silent. Dean stirs at the absence of the background noise, stretching and blinking sleep from his eyes. He can feel the energy radiating from the forest and those who live there, smell the musky scent of wet undergrowth, dirt, and slithering worms. The leather of the driver's seat creaks under his dad's weight, hardly noticeable before, but all his senses have grown as they pick up the slack for useless eyes.

A pre-emptive strike deflects, but always initiates conflict. "I don't want to talk about it."

"You will," John says. "Better to do it sooner than later."

"How 'bout never?" Dean pulls on the door handle, but the door doesn't budge. "Listen, none of this touchy-feely, okay? I've had enough to last me a few years."

"Good enough," John replies. Dean feels around the door, finds the lock, and pulls it; he easily opens his door, escaping before he breaks down again and feels that terrible rush of anger that gave him the ability to kill a man. Better to keep it locked tight, all his emotions dangerous when let lose.

John gets out at the same time, both doors slammed closed for different reasons. "Just don't come to me when you've hit rock bottom because you can't deal with it anymore."

The comment stings in a way none of his injuries can. A flicker of anger leaks out from the new walls. "Why would I? You'd probably be too drunk to care. Let's just get this over with."

"Maybe you should reconsider. This blindness has brought out a whole new side of you," John shoots back. There's a reason you don't pick at scabs, no matter how fresh or old they are.

"Whatever, man."

Dean doesn't remember the exact words John says to him at that moment, simply recalls they ripped at his carefully collective soul and erased, for a second, years of obedience and respect for his father.

John said, "At least the men I killed were soldiers who knew the risks, not innocent men," but Dean sees red and uses John's voice to guide his fist straight into his jaw.

A crack of bone on bone settles in the sizzling air, evaporating into grey clouds above. Time stills, moving slowly like life through water; John sways, caught by surprise, and falls onto the hood of the Impala with a prolonged _thud_, catching himself at the last moment with two palms splayed on the hood. Time snaps, a colliding rubber band through the air, when physics catches up with Dean for a third time and return force throws him back onto the ground, painfully jarring his body.

Time waits for a reaction.

It comes from John, who sits on the hood. He swipes a hand across his jaw, blood stretching on his skin in a bright line of red, and upon seeing it, lets out a laugh.

"Sure you don't have anything to talk about?" he asks, flexing his jaw side to side. Dean hisses through his teeth on the ground near the hood, gravel from the hastily-constructed parking area digging into his hands as he tries to get up.

"Guess I deserved that," says John finally, standing. He holds a blood-streaked hand out for Dean to take, then bends over to grab an arm and haul Dean to his feet. "That's the first and last time you'll raise a hand to me," he continues, patting Dean on the back once he's on his feet.

"Fine," grits out Dean. Locks that anger back where it belongs. Emotion, he decides is a luxury he can't afford. Just as a referee needs to remain impartial, Dean feels anything inside may cloud his judgment; hunting has no room for personal preference or moments of moral clarity. If he had learned this earlier, there wouldn't be this giant ache inside where some small remains of innocence survived only to be destroyed by his own hand.

There's no turning back now. No wishing for a life lived normally, no ending to this hunt until it takes him. Dean's convinced he deserves nothing more, that abandoning his hope for an end is his lifelong punishment for killing Hall. A prison of his own creation.

He serves his sentence willingly.

And so, he doesn't talk about it, doesn't take that chance for absolution because doing so would be taking a hand-out, might convince him he's wrong, and he feels so fragile, such a reversal may end badly.

Aching in every way possible, Dean turns his back on salvation and marches slowly into the forest.

--

A hand slides down Dean's cheek, a bite of ice welcomed in the leaden suffocation of mid-summer. Fingers linger on his jaw, tap it once, then continues to caress his neck dotted with neglected stubble. His adam's apple bobs as he forces himself to swallow down air, thick, damp air that has no place in this fanciful hallucination of escape from the added weight on overburdened shoulders.

His ear is tickled by a blast of chilly wind, struck by the lash of an icicle tongue, and the hand near his neck slides down to his side, hovering dangerously close to the fresh wound from the Redcap's axe.

"She was right, you _are_ a beautiful toy, my pet," coos a female voice.

Ice runs through his veins. He killed Estrella, watched her die, and yet, the touch feels so hauntingly familiar. Her hands raise goose bumps on his skin, and once pleasurable contact becomes intolerable. Dean pulls away and hears a crunch under his foot. Blinks. White fills his field of view, but not the elegant white of Estrella's created room.

Snow covers the ground, falls from a starless sky, hangs heavy on drooping branches. Dean turns around expecting to see the lights dotting the summer he left, but sees only more snow. As his eyes adjust, the light dims to a soft blue under the moon, the blanket of snow providing a glow of illumination.

He turns back; a fae stands where there had been no one before. She blends with the snow, _is_ snow and woman at the same time, white and dark in a way only magic can create.

Ruby red lips draw into a smile. "You would have been happy with her, once she broke you. Everlasting life and power, yet you turned it all down."

Dean regains his wits; it's the only way he'll get out of this alive. "Sorry. She must have forgotten to mention that between blinding me and kicking my ass."

"I'm doing neither. It would be interesting, but alas -- I've been told not to harm you." The fae pouts and bows her head, thick black hair falling into her face. She reminds him of Snow White from the movie he watched as a kid, pale and beautiful. The surroundings help complete the image, a drop of snow clumps and falls from an overburdened branch behind her. A still painting of the unobtainable, and yet here she stands.

"Thank God for that, sweetheart. I draw the line at fake winter scene," Dean smirks. "Where's my dad?"

"Safe," she chirps, face brightening without visible transition. "I wanted to have a little chat with you before letting my dear, dear friend release you."

In a flash of quick magic, she skitters back to his side and strokes the side of his face, _pets_ him. The air's taken on a chill; Dean can see steam rising from his skin as heat fizzles and dissipates. Her arms snake around him, meeting at his stomach, and she leans into him, head resting between his shoulder blades.

"So young and fresh," she sighs, sad. "What a waste."

"Like I haven't heard that before. Will you get off me?"

She keeps contact and slides around to face him. "That Seelie hasn't told you everything, you know. You trust her above me because of your pathetic human values of good and evil -- opposites can exist without them, but you humans," she shakes her head like a disappointed mother. "I was trying to help you, and you go running to _her_."

"Help me? Whoa, you've got some messed up idea of what help is."

"Granted, Estrella, as you call her, went a bit overboard -- "

Dean furiously shakes his head. "A little overboard?"

" -- but she meant well. We intended to bring you into your own. And before you judge Estrella's methods, remember this: she tortured you, yes, but the Seelie Queen made you kill one of your own. I ask you, which is worse?"

She -- and Dean now feels he's speaking with the Unseelie Queen -- smiles, knows she's right. Any harm done to himself by Estrella's hand is better than the death of Stewart Hall, an event he'll be carrying around for the rest of his life. But there's a hole in the Queen's logic, and Dean slithers through it.

"She said you wanted me dead," he states.

"Oh, well," she hums and starts biting a long nail poised on one of those perfect, slender fingers. "We aren't angels, Dean. Estrella wanted a pet, and you are far too strong to be dominated by anyone. In the end, she would have helped you."

"Gee, thanks, but I don't remember asking for any."

"Does a drowning man ask for a rescue? An ignorant man for knowledge? Is it not the pursuit of life to better yourself?"

"Thanks, really."

The Queen shakes her head, and switches tactics. "Haven't you wondered why you're unaffected by iron or any other methods you humans have devised to hold us at bay?"

Curiosity latches onto Dean, internal questions begging for answers, and here are the answers. The solution is a bigger prize than finding his father, or escaping this place -- both can wait a few minutes, be put off while she satisfies his thirst for answers.

And she knows she has his rapt attention, has won him over, and grins like a schoolgirl about to do something very bad but oh, so good.

"You don't know, do you? For all those books and stories, there are still some mysteries the 'tween still holds," she chirps, happy -- excited. "I will tell you, pet, if you do something for me."

"There's always a catch," Dean mumbles. "Just take me to my dad so I can get out of this damn place."

"Oh, it's nothing horrible, I promise," she says.

But here in the realm inbetween, the rules are different. Knowing the fae can't lie only means their words have double meanings, their intentions veiled thickly, and each agreement full of loopholes. Nothing here is straightforward, like the Glamour creating imaginary worlds and altered realities. Such a place requires different considerations when hearing something such as the Queen's promise that what she wants of him isn't horrible. It comes down to a matter of point of view -- relativity and internal morals rarely match person to person.

Logic clashes with emotion, and Dean finds himself stuck where so many mortals have been before. He now understands actions and choices once denounced as idiotic, those hapless men and women who chose the wrong door on purpose. If seduced, would he run off like Marjorie Hall?

"I'm not playing these games."

"Please. We both know you're going to answer me. The temptation's too great for even you to resist."

"Depends on your definition of horrible," he give in.

The Queen laughs -- a high, barking laugh of victory and Dean _gets it_. Here, winners and losers are determined before the players even meet. Destiny, it seems, trumps free will.

"I've been told not to harm you," she reiterates, "and we both know I can't go back on my word."

Dean knows she's withholding, but won't learn anything at all unless he agrees. Around him, the air grows cold, colder still, and all he's wearing is a t-shirt and jeans geared for summer heat. He hates the cold, hates the reminder of that deep, permeating chill of Estrella's prison and the tiny goose bumps it raised on fevered flesh.

He makes a decision; she won't let him leave and return to his father until he gives in, and he'd rather enter into things on his own terms sooner than hers later.

So he agrees.

The Unseelie Queen squeaks, excited, and bounces on her feet before bounding up to Dean and wrapping her arms up around his neck, fingering the outgrown hair at the base of his neck.

"Kiss me, pet, and I'll tell you a secret," she says, smiling up at him.

Dean's thinking their definitions of horrible are vastly different, but he wants to know the secret, _needs_ to, and dips his head slightly hoping it's worth it.

--

Sun dips behind the trees; twilight is when faeries come out to play, in those hours between days and nights when what the eyes see can't be trusted and illusion comes out of a mixture of sunlight and moonshine. Just as potent, the playground of faeries exudes magic, bright, enveloping magic one can drink out of the air.

John's still rubbing his jaw when Dean passes through the trees and falls from view for a second, obscured by the trunks of proud old trees, thick legs with dirt feet.

He lags behind, more than his jaw hurt by Dean's swing, his pride slowing his stride. Dean's more than proven he can take care of himself, so John gives him the space to do so. This is Dean's fight, not his. Resentment keeps him a few feet behind his son, and the spreading sadness that John's no longer needed in the same way he was before all this happened.

He passes between the trees seconds after Dean, and when his eyes adjust to the subtle change in light, he finds himself walking through to a bright clearing dotted with the vivid flowers of mid-spring, colors blending with healthy green grass soft to the touch.

The scene, reminiscent of his early summer days visiting his grandparent's farm in Iowa, stops John. He stands on the sizzling dirt of the forest floor on the edge of the grass blanket and knows if he turns around, the scene will only surround him.

When he does, a wave of vertigo slams into him. The world's flipped on him -- what he believed he was turning away from is what he stumbles into, now with youthful faeries lounging in the shade of supple trees or dancing to the tune of a male piper. John's fallen into a fairy tale, a story spun from mythology. The music tugs at him, pulling at something deep inside, and all thoughts of Dean or what he's doing there evaporate into the magic sunshine.

Like a runaway kite, John snatches the trail end of thought and holds tight. Focus in this place is difficult, but not impossible, and were he a lesser man, the charm of faerie music would have obliterated what makes him_ John_.

Determined to keep his sense of self, he steps forward onto the lush grass.

The music fades, then stops, the dancers turning to watch him approach, bright, unnatural eyes glued on his every move. Even those under the trees sit up and lean forward. Silence is unbecoming of such a place; even the birds and trees hold their breath.

"For a human, you walk into my court with strong confidence," chimes the Seelie Queen. She hasn't changed at all since he last saw her. She walks up from behind him and gracefully stands tall off to the side. "One could almost consider that rude."

"Almost," John says, "but I get the feeling you were expecting me."

"A wise assumption. Even the false night created by a storm is within the hearing of the Unseelie Queen. She saw that the geas was fulfilled properly. I am not without my spies."

"So she's here, too, then."

"The activities of the Unseelie are not my concern, nor should they be yours," she says, cryptic. From the left approaches another fae, the piper from earlier now without his instrument. "I had thought you a careful man," the Queen says, "and yet, you said nothing when I entered into the geas with your son. I wonder, why do you believe I would send your son after a hunter of fae and let you, a man just like he, go free?"

The Piper's close, close enough for John to reach with an outstretched arm. The proximity combined with the Queen's words put him on the defensive, mind cycling through the weapons on him and who he needs to take out first, second, until the Glamour around him dissolves and allows for his escape.

But he doesn't have Dean's gift to see through Glamour, and he barely finishes a block before the Piper takes a second shot to his side, arm, then his sore back. His bruised spine buckles under a series of blows enhanced by magic, and while he manages to get in a few punches and kicks, even a seasoned fighter like John is no match for a Sidhe, and the fight ends quickly.

A sweep comes on top of a shot at his side, and John blocks the punch and gets one in, but the sweep knocks him flat on his back, inflaming the injury sustained while trying to keep the Redcap from harming Dean.

The Queen stands above him. "I granted your son safety, not you. If not for your oversight, I would never have gotten him just where I need him. How does it feel, knowing you are the root of your son's undoing?"

John would tell her exactly what he thought if his mouth would work. The Piper's spun his spell, and John can feel the soft grass ripple underneath him as he's dragged away.

--

The Unseelie Queen's lips are surprisingly warm.

She begins with a chaste kiss, a peck on Dean's that gives hope that perhaps that's all she wanted. Then he feels the light swish of her small tongue and knows she wants more as her hands tighten their hold on his neck, fingernails digging into his skin.

There's never been a time when Dean's kissed a woman he hasn't wanted to, if only filled with evanescent lust at the end of a long night. He feels revulsion as he parts his lips, a sickening sense of invasion as she deepens the kiss and presses against him. Dean keeps his arms locked to his sides and lets her explore. Turns off his conscious mind and imagines himself someplace else. Anywhere but the snow-covered forest created by the queen of the darkest creatures of faerie.

Then something changes, a surge of power and -- it feels like the prickle of electricity when touching a live wire or unprotected socket, that uncomfortable crawling of fire ants under the skin. It spreads through Dean quickly, washing over and through him, scrambling real and illusion, dream and awake. The kiss deepens, though not on the Queen's side as Dean yearns to feel _more_.

Locked together in the snow, Dean grasps the Unseelie Queen tight and loses all sense of himself as he kisses her ferociously, almost violently as waves of that indescribable power seep deep into him, permeating every fiber --

-- and ends. Cuts off so sharply, he's sent reeling back, down, and only the chill of snow seeping through his jeans wakes him back to _now_.

The Queen stands above him, hand covering her lips, blood dripping down her chin to plop onto white snow. Her eyes, twin orbs of black coal, are open wide in shock. Gone is that playfulness sprung out of control; it's replaced by raw surprise.

Dean has the upper hand, if only he knew what the hell just happened.

"That sneaky bitch," the Queen mutters. "She knew all along and still -- " she pauses and looks to Dean with pity, almost motherly concern flashing in her dark eyes. "You poor, poor boy. She has you right where she wants you, and you have no idea."

"What the hell did you do?" Dean demands.

"I wanted to show you, let you know what lies beneath if you gave up your humanity. You're a powerful man, pet, and a worthy ally."

"Enough with this cryptic bullshit, okay? Plain English works fine for me."

"You don't get it, do you? There's only one way you can give up being human -- and when you do that, all those charms you use will affect you as they do me. There's a war coming, pet, and the Seelie Queen will do anything to get you on her side."

Dean picks himself off the ground, brushing all-too-realistic snow from his jeans. "Whatever. I'm not on anyone's side. Just killing all the evil sons of bitches I can."

"Admirable," the Queen remarks dryly. "Remember what I said, pet, and be wary of Queens who hide in the daylight. They're magicians of a different kind."

The potent sorrow she exudes gives Dean pause as he watches her walk off into the winter forest until she becomes the snow beginning to fall. Her comments only strengthen his doubts of all this being a coincidence. Heat begins to warm him, the snow melting rapidly.

Estrella may have been acting out of her own insanity when running into him outside that bar -- could have been directed by forces outside her knowledge just like him -- but that doesn't mean others didn't jump in to take advantage the moment Dean killed his captor and blindly stumbled back out into the world.

--

Eleven months after his family was fractured by the departure of his youngest son, and three weeks after his eldest called him on the phone, bloody, broken, and blinded by a force he had yet to come against in his personal war against the evils that haunted the innocent, John Winchester sees the spitting image of his wife's turbulent hazel gaze in Dean.

He'd begun to doubt seeing those expressive eyes again, so strong and certain when worn by the warrior his eldest's become, and in the sparkling spring sunlight, they seem almost green as Dean appears on the edge of the Seelie Court. His mistakes and doubts and actions yet to come into being all seem for naught when he sees Dean whole once again not only in his eyes, but body as well.

Cuts and bruises remain, marks of the trials he's had to go through since John's obsession with finding the demon that took his wife kicked into overdrive. They're subtle reminders that the part of him still called father kept such new discoveries secret out of some twisted sense of protection, and ultimately drove Dean from their shared life. While Dean may have left physically, John had long ago left in spirit, going through the motions of hunting to mask his true activities.

A storm was brewing. He'd seen the signs -- increased possessions, more creatures coming out in the open to mingle with humans, and spirits of the departed becoming stuck here, on this plane, in grossly large numbers. Whatever it was, he had a sense that their family's search for the demon who took Mary was perceived as more than a personal quest.

Originally, he believed Sam's survival was the key, his research revealing his Sammy to be one of only three infants to make it out of the demon's fire. Now, his stock in not his, but Dean's part in saving his baby brother, has increased. This newest turn of events gives reason not only to _why_ they were so good at what they did, but also to why a demon would take notice of their quiet suburban family in the first place.

John still feels guilty for his wife's death and the life he's forced upon his sons, but feels he better understands the path his life took even before meeting Mary Browning in that small bar down on King Street he frequented after moving back to Kansas City.

And Mary, beautiful, smart, spontaneous Mary, always acting on some mysterious hunch that inevitably worked out, had some part to play as well. Free will may have set the pace of their relationship, but fate brought them together.

He may be a hunter, but at the end of the day, he's only the father who trained his sons to fight evil. Because, he realizes, it's not his fight and never has been -- it's theirs. Once he finishes by finding Mary's killer, it's time to bow out and watch from the wings.

For now, all he can do is prepare them as best he can. It's time to let them leave the nest and make their own mistakes without their father there to tell them how to fix things.

John figures now is as good a time as any. Because being bound to a tree and gagged, he laughs to himself, really lends itself to being an audience member.

--

The first thing Dean notices is not the sudden change from winter to spring, or the double images of dual sight, but his dad tied to a tree on the far side of the ring of trees with blood dried on his face.

Anger builds inside him at the sight of his dad hurt and captive. With long, decisive strides, he passes the lounging fae and dancers, making his way to his dad, intent on freeing him from his bonds and _getting the hell out of there_. All kinds of freaky shit was going on, and he's a firm believer that if stuff starts to creep you out, you either shoot it or haul ass.

Since shooting up the place wasn't an option at this moment, getting the fuck out of there seemed a damn good plan. And, while he was being so assertive, Dean crossed 'hanging out near possible fae hang outs' off his list of things to do before he died. Hell, he wasn't even going to go _near_ a wooded area unless he had to for awhile.

Three feet from his dad, the Seelie Queen slides between them, floating above the ground. Again with the freaky shit.

"Hello, Dean," she smirks -- not smiles gently as the Unseelie Queen did, but smirks like a lioness ready to pounce on her young. "Enjoy your chat with my lovely friend?"

"Yeah. Great time. What the hell did you do to my dad?" Dean shoots. This just keeps getting better and better -- did traditional ideas of good and evil have no meaning here, or was he stuck in some cosmic opposite day?

"Why don't we have a little chat?"

Dean doesn't move. "Maybe later, when my dad's not tied to a fucking tree. You said no one would hurt us if I did what you wanted. He didn't kill Hall, _I_ did."

The Queen nods as she listens, then shakes her head slowly. "Perhaps you misunderstood me. I never said your father wasn't to be harmed, only you. Any implications or assumptions you made weren't errors on my part." She speaks to him like a teacher does to a student who's having difficulty understanding an easy concept, voice sweet yet condescending.

"You fucking two-timing bitch. You _knew_ how we'd take what you said," Dean growls. "Damnit, dad, you could've knocked some sense into me or something."

The Queen holds up her hand, and Dean turns to look over his shoulder. The Piper stands near him, ready to attack at the Queen's command. But a deal's a deal, and no matter how many insults he throws at her, she can't -- or anyone else -- lay a finger on him.

"While I do enjoy your company, I have other matters to attend to."

"Other matters? How about letting him go?"

"You have your sight back, and I believe the _other_ queen removed her executioner's curse. I've held up my end of the bargain, as promised. Your father's condition is no concern of yours," -- and here she pauses, going from preying lioness to the Cheshire Cat -- "unless you are willing to make a trade."

Dean doesn't even hesitate. For all that's happened, that he fears will happen, he'll do anything for his family. "What do you want for his freedom _and_ safety?"

"You're learning," the Queen says, almost _delighted_ by Dean's response. "I want your word you will turn a blind eye to the activities of the fae. You are not to hunt them or hinder them in any way. For that, I will let your father go."

"Not good enough. I want your word that none of you fae will harm him. Or my brother."

The Queen tsks. "That will cost you more."

"Fine."

Around them, things darken. The lounging fae scatter, disappearing into the surrounding trees.

"You will come to me when called, if the need for another like Hall to be killed arises."

John, who's remained quiet, makes a sound that could be a shouted no, but Dean doesn't listen. No, for his family, killing another would be worth the personal cost.

"Only once. That's it," he tells her. "I'm not your personal assassin. Get the flute player over there to do your dirty work."

"Are we agreed, then?"

"Yeah. Now let him go."

The Seelie Queen nods; the ropes binding John fall away, dissolving into dirt with his gag. The Queen gives one last nod -- acknowledgement that one term has already been met, and in the span of one blink, she and her Court are replaced with the serene pathway of Chilton Wood's main trail. Without the Queen obstructing the way, Dean goes to his dad's side and helps him up from where he sits against the tree.

The return of his sight feels like a worn pair of jeans found after weeks of being missing; everything slides into place like no time has passes. He does, however, have a greater appreciation for it.

Wrapping an arm around his dad's shoulders, he leans on him to keep himself upright as much as John leans back for the same reason.

"Man, dad, you've really let yourself go. You look like shit," Dean says.

They start down the trail back to the Impala and the open highway beyond, the contestants in some fucked-up three-legged race.

"Why the hell did you make another deal with her?" John asks when they've made it within sight of their beloved car. "You know she'll mess with you again."

They emerge from the forest. Dean stops and throws his head back to let out the cross between a laugh and a sob -- how fucked up is his life? In a flash of Glamour-driven foresight, he sees himself face to face with fae, cheeks burning with shame as he turns away - punching the nearest wall when the next day's paper reports a death he could have prevented. And what of his father, and the fragile peace between them? Will he finally see Dean's failure with all that has happened, that he proved himself useless, and slowly start weaning himself away out of sympathy?

He stares at the sky and the clouds before facing a befuddled John. He measures his words carefully against the guilt of killing another human, of being such a failure, contacting his brother at this point would only give more reason for Sam to stay away, of _knowing_ his father's going to leave him, too. He almost, Dean tells himself, deserves it.

But he doesn't show it. Paints a smile on his face and says, "You're my dad. I'm not going to let some bitch fae torture you."

John raises his eyebrows, curious. "No?"

"That's my job," Dean smiles. "Now, give me the keys. I'm driving."

* * *

**Author's Notes**

I remember sitting in my apartment in Los Angeles chatting online with PL Wynter. "I have this idea, but it's kinda Mary Sue; I think I can make it gen, though," I told her. She told me to write it. To not care that I didn't have a storyline planned, that I wouldn't have to show anyone. She was my first audience, and encouraged me to go on.

Of course, the story wasn't _this_ story at that point. This one begins where a flashback from another version started...and it just continued to grow.

This is due to Scout27. She is a goddess and my muse and so many wonderful things. Without her, I'd never write anything, would never have the confidance that what I've written is worth posting online. Not only does she keep me sane at work by chatting with me via email, but she keeps me going in more ways than one.

I have to admit, the original Mary-Sue-ish story I daydreamed was inspired by Koyote and her fic Second Sight. Through an odd twist of fate, she became my beta, and man -- she is _talented_. She's made this fic so much better through her suggestions and edits and due dilligence to look up spellings and word usage. I cannot thank her enough.

I also would like to thank the follow people for their comments and support: Movaeblehistory, Lemmypie, Big Pink(who rescued me from falling off a cliff of pity and whining), and Carocali.

And, of course, all of you. You have made me happier than I could have imagined with your comments and flattery and I thank you _all_ for coming along on the ride.

Oh, dear. I think I might cry. And I'm at work.

3 Kira


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